Redemption
by BackToTheStart
Summary: Post Huddy breakup. At one little girl's insistence that House brings her to the park to play, nothing will ever be the same again.
1. Chapter 1

First Fanfiction ever! This is just an idea I have been toying with since forever. Takes place post Huddy breakup.

I believe House is really someone who underneath his tough exterior, cares very much for the people around him.

Reviews would be greatly appreciated :)

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><p>House lay sprawled across his Ottoman, dozing as he waited for his team to complete their tests on their latest patient, when suddenly, he was assailed by someone with a ear-screeching "HOWSSSSSSS!" and a flurry of giggles.<p>

Before he could help it, a slight smile tugged at his lips, but he hid it quickly behind a scowl.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

In response to his cranky question, Rachel simply giggled and clambered onto his lap, throwing her arms around his neck.

"Miss you, Hows. How come you don't come play anymore?" She rubbed her cheek against his scruff, giggling at the ticklish feeling, as she always did.

Like her mother.

A sharp pang went through House's heart. He didn't know how to tell Rachel that he wouldn't be able to sail in through Cuddy's door, sit down with her in her room and start playing with her again. What should he say? Before he could open his mouth to attempt answering her, Wilson burst through the door.

"Rachel! You were supposed to be waiting in my office!"

House immediately drew up his walls, and glared at Wilson.

"Why in the world is the spawn here? And why have you become the henpecked sitter chasing after the evil one?"

"Chickenpox outbreak at school. Marina's ill today, and Cuddy's at a meeting with a donor. I had to pick her up." Wilson sighed, hands on his hips. "She's been pestering me all day to let her come see you. She escaped when I went to the washroom."

"Cos I missed you Hows!" Rachel interrupted, jiggling up and down on House's lap.

Wilson cringed inwardly, not just for House's leg. He didn't let Rachel come visit House as he knew House was still hurting from the break-up. House had grown to care for Rachel, something that was not easy for him, and he had not seen Rachel since Cuddy broke up with him. And he didn't know how House would feel having Rachel around. Or how Cuddy would feel having Rachel around House. Like now.

House grimaced at Rachel's wiggling on his lap. Holding her by the waist, he shifted her weight onto his good leg, and bent his leg slightly to try relieve the sharp stabbings of pain. Thank goodness he had just taken a Vicodin before his nap.

Wilson interrupted, addressing Rachel and giving House a moment to compose himself. "Rachel, House has a patient, we really should let him work alright?"

"But Uncle Jimmy, he was sleeping!"

Ouch. Just like her mother, thought Wilson.

"And _you_ interrupted my beauty sleep. It was helping me to cure my patient you know. Now shoo!" House stared pointedly at Rachel.

Used to his sarcasm and warped humour, (it was one, to a child her age), Rachel only chuckled and hugged him harder.

House groaned. She didn't seem to want to let go anytime soon, and if she was anything like her mother, that stubborn streak meant she was _not _going to let go anytime soon. And no way he was going to admit this to anyone, but he kind of did not mind having her around.

"Rachel. Let's go. Please?" Wilson was well aware of the stubbornness of the Cuddy women.

Ignoring Wilson completely, Rachel turned her sparkling brown eyes to gaze into House's blue eyes.

"Nope! Hows, let's go play! Uncle Jimmy is boring. I want to go to the park!"

House smirked. Seemed like the precocious one preferred the grouchy old man over Wilson the nice uncle. He lifted Rachel, retrieved his cane from the bookshelf and got up. He pointed his cane at Wilson.

"Go back to your dying patients."

"But…"

"I have a few hours before my team come back."

"House, I…"

"For God's sake, Wilson! Just go, I've got her. She'll come back in one piece. In case you were worried about Cuddy biting your head off. Keys."

Wilson hesitated. Rachel had been a ball of energy the whole day and he couldn't concentrate on his paperwork. And he knew that this was a good opportunity for House to spend some time with Rachel. Get some closure.

He took out his car keys and passed them to House warily. Before he could say anything, House grabbed the keys, limped past him and out the door.

"In one piece, House!" Wilson hollered after the two figures – one tall limping man with a cane and the girl bouncing alongside him chattering excitedly.

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><p>Safely buckled into her car seat in the back row of Wilson's car, Rachel bounced up and down excitedly at the prospect of finally getting to play with House for the first time in what seemed like forever. House had given her a red sucker, and she clasped it tight in her hand.<p>

"Hows! :ook at my tongue! Is it red?"

Rachel stuck her tongue out and waggled it at House exaggeratedly. Glancing in his rearview mirror as they waited for the traffic light to turn green, House smiled.

"Yeah."

He genuinely enjoyed himself around Rachel. Maybe it was the childhood he never really had, but Rachel's exuberance and innocence was able to penetrate those concrete walls he built around himself. He was able to let his guard down around her.

The traffic light turned green.

As House moved the car forward, he saw from the corner of his eye an SUV swerving wildly from across the intersection. As it barreled down the road, it was headed straight towards them, towards Rachel's side of the car.

Acting on instinct, he jerked the wheel to the side, hoping desperately to angle the impact of the crash away from Rachel's side and onto his own.

There was a sickening crash and time seemed to slow. The car seemed to fly through the air upon impact. Rachel's scream was lost amongst the sounds of metal crushing metal and glass shattering.

House glanced desperately in the rearview mirror at Rachel before all went black.


	2. Chapter 2

Pain. It consumed him. It was everywhere. But this time it wasn't confined to his right leg. All over, he felt like a thousand knives were stabbing him repeatedly, and every single part of his body throbbed in time to his pounding heart.

Gasping, he desperately tried to regulate his breathing. He forced his eyes open, and colours swirled around him. He blinked, and things came into focus. The first thing he saw was the steering wheel pinning him to his seat. He could only move one arm. His legs were trapped under a crushed pile of metal. His car door was unrecognizable – it seemed to mould to his body. Blood was seeping across the leather of his seat, and it barely registered in his mind that it was his blood. Something dripped down the side of his face and onto his lips. Blood.

A whimper interrupted his thoughts.

Shit. Shit shit shit. Rachel.

He forced his eyes open.

"R..Rachel?" He tried to turn his head back to look at her but instead his whole body erupted in pain, protesting the slight shift in position. He was surrounded by metal and trapped.

Gulping air desperately as the pain threatened to overwhelm him, he squeezed his eyes shut. All he could hear was his harsh breathing, and blood rushing through his head. After an indeterminable amount of time, he managed to find the strength to speak.

"R..Rachel. Are you okay?" He gasped. Talking was not something his battered chest appreciated, and it made it known.

"I… I have an owie, Hows"

Shit shit shit.

"It's okay Rachel. Where does it hurt?" He tried to maintain a calm tone of voice. The last thing he needed was for her to erupt into hysterics and make any injuries worse.

"My… my hand."

Just the hand, so far. That was good. At least she didn't say the head or neck or back. He tried to remember how the accident occurred. Did she suffer any impact? But he could only draw a blank. It was a blur of metal crushing like paper and glass shattering. As he tried to organize his thoughts he heard a foreign voice.

"Oh my god! Dude hang on, I've called 911!"

Help. That was good.

"The kid… Is she okay? Anything major?" He gasped. Needed to check if Rachel was okay.

"She looks okay, just a nasty gash on her arm. Dude stop talking, just wait for help alright?"

Just as well. Unconsciousness was beckoning. The last thought he had as he succumbed to the inviting darkness was that Rachel was in one piece.

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><p>He drifted into consciousness. Pain roared through the fog in his mind.<p>

"Dr House! Dr House, can you hear me?"

He groaned. He tried to shift, to find an escape from the pain, only to be rewarded with the pain increasing sharply in intensity. The pain overwhelmed him, he couldn't form words. He could only gasp desperately as his chest tightened. He couldn't breathe. The harsh sound of his rasping breathing filled the silent wreck of a car. An oxygen mask was soon clamped over his face.

"Dr House! Stay with me alright?"

With oxygen filling his lungs and giving him the air he needed, House whispered, "Rachel?"

"She's okay, just a gash. Stay with me, Dr House. We've brought her to PPTH. We're going to get you out soon."

She was in one piece. That was good. With a sigh of relief, he succumbed again to the darkness away from the pain.

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><p>"Wilson!"<p>

Wilson spun around to face a near-hysterical Cuddy.

"House and Rachel… they were in an accident. I'm so sorry, Rachel got House to bring her out to play." Wilson was overcome with guilt. He shouldn't have let Rachel and House go off to the park together. They could have played in the hospital.

"What the hell Wilson! I got _you_ to pick her up from school cos I knew _you_ were trustworthy and wouldn't get her into situations like **this**!"

Before Cuddy could continue on her rant, a cry interrupted the hustle and bustle of the ER.

"Mommy!"

Cuddy rushed up to Rachel who was seated upright on a gurney, inspecting her whole body, checking for injuries. "Are you okay, baby? Where does it hurt?" Cuddy enveloped Rachel in a hug, filled with relief that her baby was in one piece.

"She looks fine, Dr Cuddy. No major injuries."

Wilson approached the paramedics, "What about the man with her? Dr House?"

The paramedic hesitated, "It doesn't look good. They'll probably need to use the Jaws of Life."

Wilson paled. That process could take a long time, and House would be alone in the car wreck. In excruciating pain. He made a split second decision.

"You're going back to the scene? I'm coming with you."

"Wilson!"

As he was about to leave, Cuddy called after him. She didn't say anything, but they exchanged glances. A silent understanding between them - from her, a horror that it was (could have been) House's fault, a flash of anger that it was with him that Rachel was injured, an apology that she couldn't go, a longing to be there, a look of assurance that he would be okay; from him, an apology that he had allowed this to happen, a plea for her to not blame House nor jump to conclusions, a grim understanding of what he might face when he arrived at the scene.

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><p>He arrived on the scene, greeted by a twisted pile of metal. God, was that even his car? It was an unrecognizable mangle. As he strode frantically towards the wreck, he overheard a conversation.<p>

"Looks bad. Did you see the driver of that Range Rover? Dead drunk in broad daylight!"

"Thank God that little girl escaped relatively unscathed."

"Can't say the same of that poor man. Saw the whole thing – he swerved the whole car to have the Range Rover hit his side and not the little girl's side. Saved her life."

At that, Wilson swallowed hard. House had saved Rachel's life. He quickened his steps into a run, and approached the wreck where the firemen were trying to extricate House from the twisted pile of metal.

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><p>"House. House, can you hear me?"<p>

A familiar voice pulled House to consciousness. His body was engulfed in fire. The pain swept through his entire body. He groaned, unable to comprehend or think clearly. Who was that?

"House, please stay awake. Stay with me. I'm here."

Wilson. He forced his eyes open, and looked to the side. He couldn't move his head. But beyond the shattered window and twisted metal, he could see Wilson's concerned brown eyes.

"Wilson…" He whimpered. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and a tear leaked out from the corner of his eye. Wilson was here.

"That's right, House. Stay awake. Stay with me. We're gonna get you out."

The car shifted as the firemen operated the Jaws of Life. House's anguished scream filled the air. Sweat dripped from his head, mingling with the blood flowing freely.

"House, it's okay. Nearly there. You still there?"

"R..Rachel?" House gasped, fighting off the pops of colour that exploded before his eyes with the pain.

"She's okay House. You did good. Hang on." Wilson couldn't quite believe his ears at House's concern for Rachel in his excruciating pain.

Trembling from the aftershocks of the wave of excruciating pain, House was about to whisper a pained yes when the metal around him shifted yet again, this time causing the whole wreck to jar. He barely had time to scream before dark spots filled his vision and he was overcome by the darkness again.

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><p>Reviews please? :) First time, so I really want to know whether this is okay!<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you everyone for the lovely reviews! Truth be told, it's making me quite nervous - hopefully I can live up to all of your expectations!

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><p>"Shit. House, wake up! Stay awake!" Wilson was frantic.<p>

There was no response.

The firemen had managed to open a sizeable gap through which House could be extracted. The paramedics took over, efficiently setting a brace over House's neck before moving him out of the car and onto the waiting gurney.

Wilson inhaled sharply. He was a mess. Blood dripped freely from a deep cut on his head. Lacerations all over his arms, and blood stained his sky-blue shirt liberally. Both his legs had been crushed, and his arm was at an unnatural angle. One could see the indent in his ribcage where his ribs had been crushed by the unforgiving metal and steering wheel. Blood flowed freely from the numerous lacerations and cuts all over his body.

"Wilson…"

"House. Don't move. Just stay still, we're gonna get you fixed." Wilson grabbed House's relatively uninjured hand and held on tight.

Things were not looking good – House had been trapped in the wreck for nearly forty minutes, and was floating in and out of consciousness.

Wilson held House's hand tightly all the way to PPTH, trying to convince himself that the tighter he held House's hand, the better things would be.

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><p>The doors of the ER burst open as a crowd of people surrounding a single gurney rushed through, Wilson at the head of them all. Cuddy, sitting next to Rachel, jumped to her feet.<p>

"Baby, stay here with Nurse Brenda alright?"

Switching into her administrative role, she took charge. "Page Dr Chase stat and get them to prepare an OR. I want Dr Morrison conducting the exam." Morrison was the head of the ER – there was no way Cuddy was going to let any resident or intern examine her Head of Diagnostics.

"Wilson. How bad is it?"

"Not good. God, Cuddy, he was stuck in there for forty minutes!"

Cuddy inhaled sharply. Rachel had managed to escape with such minor injuries – how the hell did House end up in such bad condition? But this was not the time to let feelings get in the way.

Wilson and Cuddy followed the gurney and entered the cubicle where the ER team was trying to stabilize and assess his condition, only to see House arch off the bed with an anguished moan as hands probed his injuries.

"For Christ's sake, keep him still!"

The doctors and nurses were flustered – treating one of their own was never easy, much less the acerbic and commanding jerk who was the Head of Diagnostics.

Wilson rushed over, and grabbed House's hand, and looked into House's blue eyes, which were dulled by the pain.

"House. You gotta keep still, let them examine you."

"Hurts…" House gasped, fogging up his oxygen mask with his harsh breaths.

Suddenly, House arched off the gurney, and began thrashing about, limbs jerking and flying.

"He's seizing! Roll him!"

To their horror, they saw red froth bubbling from House's mouth. But what they saw at side of House's head was worse – a visible dent on the left side of his head. Cuddy felt like throwing up. Wilson paled even more.

"He's bleeding badly internally. Send him up to the OR now. Page Dr Foreman as well."

At Morrison's orders, the team moved off towards the OR.

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><p>Chase scrubbed his arms furiously – he was nervous. Hell, he was usually never nervous. But this was House. How many times had he seen him at death's door? He was going to work with the best surgeons to fix House (Cuddy's orders), but that didn't do anything to soothe his nerves.<p>

Chase gulped, and entered the OR; afraid of what he was going to face.

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><p>Cuddy, Wilson and Rachel sat outside, silent. They couldn't bear to watch from the OR gallery. It had been several hours since House was whisked into the OR. Exhausted by the day's events, Rachel had fallen asleep with her head in Cuddy's lap. Absentmindedly stroking Rachel's hair, Cuddy stared at the door between her and at the team of surgeons and nurses working on House. She didn't know what to feel.<p>

Was the accident House's fault? He shouldn't have brought her out. No, it couldn't have been, he would have been careful around Rachel. Was he high on Vicodin and careless? House had hurt her already, now Rachel? A cold fury creeped up her spine. Damn it, Wilson. Why couldn't you just keep her away from House? She should have stayed with Rachel instead of going for that stupid donor's meeting. She should have known that Rachel would miss House, she shouldn't have kept her from him after the breakup. Why did this have to happen when Rachel was with House? It just reinforced her belief that she should have kept Rachel away from him. Or was it her fault? Her thoughts replayed in her mind over and over again endlessly as the clock ticked.

Wilson rubbed his neck again and again. His usually immaculate pants and shirt had the blood of his best friend on it. H couldn't take the tension. All he could imagine was his best friend prone on the operating table. Images of House whimpering in the car wreck surrounded by metal haunted him. He broke the silence.

"You should know. The driver of the SUV was drunk. House swerved the car so that the impact would be on him. He…. He saved Rachel. Even when he was trapped, he kept asking about her."

Cuddy stared at him, disbelief and relief mingling on her face. _It wasn't his fault_.

"I… I'm going to bring Rachel to my office to put her on the couch."

Deflection. Both House and her were good at it.

She gathered Rachel into her arms, and walked off towards the sanctuary of her office, away from the mess.

Wilson watched her walk off silently; he buried his face in his hands.

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><p>Reviews? :) Hopefully this is going okay!<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Cuddy sat down on the couch, and pulled Rachel's head into her lap, mind whirling.

House had saved Rachel. He put himself in danger, no, _risked his life_ for Rachel. Whether it was a conscious or a split-second decision didn't matter. He had protected the single person in Cuddy's life whom she loved wholeheartedly with no reservations.

And the bitter irony was that she broke up with him because she thought he couldn't handle pain – didn't want to handle pain – and couldn't be the constant she needed him to be for her and for Rachel.

She choked back a bitter laugh as hot tears trickled down her face.

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><p>"He's alive." Chase stated flatly.<p>

Wilson slumped into his chair, leaning his head back against the wall with a sigh of relief.

A weariness permeated Chase's bones. It had been eight physically and emotionally taxing hours scrutinizing and trying to fix House's battered body.

"Fractured his arm in two places. Three broken ribs with massive internal bleeding. We removed his spleen. There should be no lasting damage to the other organs."

"Depressed skull fracture that caused bleeds in his brain." Foreman appeared behind Chase.

They both hesitated, not knowing how to continue. Wilson saw them exchange glances and his heart sank.

"His legs were crushed. If it was that alone, he might have regained use of his legs. But..." Chase faltered and the normally eloquent doctor didn't seem to know how to continue.

There was a _but_? Wilson rose to his feet, trying to fight slight hysteria.

Foreman took over, "He suffered a spinal fracture. He might not regain function of his legs at all."

There was a long silence, the weight of the prognosis hanging over the three figures standing in the lonely hallway.

"Oh God," whispered Wilson. "Oh God oh God. His legs…"

Despite the infarction and the pain that House constantly lived in, it was clear to Wilson that nothing, and really _nothing_, could make House give up his leg. It caused him agony, it tormented him, gave him misery, but _at least he had two legs_. At least he could ride his bike, enjoy the breeze and adrenaline that came from riding his bike. At least he could step on his piano pedals with two legs.

_At least he could walk. _

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><p>With a quiet whoosh, the door slid open and Cuddy slipped into the room. Wilson was sprawled in the recliner, tie askew and mouth open as he dozed, exhausted by the events that had occurred over the past day. Cuddy couldn't help a slight smile as she looked at House's loyal best friend.<p>

Cuddy's heart sped up painfully as she surveyed the bruised and broken man who lay in the bed surrounded by countless machines, chest rising and falling slowly with the help of a ventilator. She picked up his chart, scanning it, and her breath caught at the extent of his injuries.

The chart slipped out of her hands and clattered to the floor. Wilson awoke with a start, expecting a medical crisis, but relaxed upon seeing Cuddy.

"Hi. Sorry to wake you up."

"How's Rachel?"

"Sleeping. Wilson… how bad is the spinal injury?"

Wilson immediately began rubbing the back of his neck. There was a heavy silence, interrupted by the steady beeps that came from the monitors around House.

"He might not regain function in his legs."

Cuddy was silent. She, too, knew full well how House felt about his legs. She walked over to the head of the bed and touched the bruised face of House, feeling his scratchy stubble and tracing his jawline.

"Lisa… He needs us now more than ever. He needs _you_."

A lump formed in Cuddy's throat.

She suddenly withdrew her hand, as if she had been burnt, and abruptly turned to leave the room as the tears threatened to spill over. Stopping at the door, she looked back at Wilson.

"Let me know when he wakes up."

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><p>Wilson watched Cuddy walk off, and turned back to his best friend lying motionless on the hospital bed.<p>

"You better hang in there, House. You need to pay me back for wrecking my car."

The ghost of a joke coming from his lips sounded so feeble. Wilson sighed, running his hands through his hair.

"I'm here, House. Still here. Whatever comes, I'll be here for you."

He made the promise, and vowed to keep it. House needed him more than ever. But he knew that it wasn't enough. House needed more than just his best friend.

He needed her.

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><p>Cuddy gripped the steering wheel so tight her knuckles were white. Barely noticing the scenery that passed her window by as she drove Rachel home in the middle of the night, her movements were mechanical. Cautious, as always when on the road, but mechanical. She glanced over at Rachel, still fast asleep in the backseat.<p>

She had been the one to suggest the muscle debridement that though saved House's life, robbed him of his mobility, gave him a life of pain.

"He opened up his heart to you – he tried to change for the better! You can't break up with him because you don't think he can do better."

Wilson had come look for her after House had jumped off the balcony of the hotel.

"He did that for attention, Wilson."

"He did that because he felt empty! He _begged_ you not to go Lisa. _House never begs_."

She broke up with him because she was a mother – she wasn't looking for a breathtaking relationship with thrills, she needed stability. Being with House was exhilarating – it was never a boring relationship, what with him waking up early and hiding under the bed to grab her ankles as she woke up, stealing gifts from hospital patients for her, drugging her mom and Wilson, trying to open champagne bottles with swords.

She needed someone whom she could count on to stand up for her and for Rachel, someone she knew would protect them with all his heart. And she knew that House was not that person, not when he had to go back to Vicodin to handle the emotional pain that came with being in a relationship. His destructive binge that came the week after the breakup only served to reinforce her belief that she did the right thing.

By breaking up with him, she took away from him what could possibly have been his last chance at happiness. And a friend. They could never go back entirely to their previous platonic (had it been entirely platonic the past 10 years?) relationship with their breakup a heavy burden in their hearts.

And now, she had taken away his legs.

_What would he have left?_

Cuddy unconsciously stepped on the accelerator, trying to get as far away as possible as quickly as she could from the man she had loved and hurt.


	5. Chapter 5

Wilson was awoken abruptly by the sound of monitors beeping frantically. He opened his eyes and saw House's limbs jerking and spasming wildly, pulling against the many wires connected to him. Springing to his feet, he cradled House's head to prevent any additional trauma, and reached for the call button. A nurse ran in before he pressed the button.

"2mg of Ativan."

Wilson's tone was almost brusque, uncharacteristic of the oncologist. House's body stilled gradually, and Wilson relaxed. He checked the monitors and wires over, ensuring that everything was still in place. He checked House's pupil reactions. He adjusted the blankets that had been thrown into disarray by House's flailing limbs, tucking House in. He sank back down in the recliner, and waited for sleep to take him.

* * *

><p>Cuddy lowered her sleeping daughter onto her bed, and headed to the kitchen to grab a cup of tea to soothe her nerves. She sat down on her couch and turned on the television, looking for a distraction from the many thoughts that haunted her.<p>

The television was tuned to a news channel; the first sight that greeted her was a news report about a car accident. Cuddy stared at the twisted pile of metal that was on the screen. It was evident that House had swerved the car almost ninety degrees to put Rachel as far away as possible from the point of impact. Rachel's red child seat winked merrily from the rear of the car, which was miraculously undamaged. But what she took her breath away was the mangled front of the car. The Range Rover was seemingly conjoined to the sedan, and she could see that the beast of a vehicle had crumpled the driver's side of the car.

It was, she shuddered, a metal coffin.

Once again, the magnitude of what House did hit her.

It brought her to bed, where she drew Rachel close and held her in her arms. Reassured by the steady breathing of her sleeping daughter, Cuddy found herself praying that he too, would be safe.

* * *

><p>At 5am, Wilson was awoken yet again by the shrill beeping sounds of monitors. This time, however, the sounds were more urgent and blaring. With a start, Wilson realized that there was no movement from House's bed. Cursing out loud, he sprang to his feet, and was joined by Chase and nurses running into the room.<p>

His heart thudded painfully as he watched Chase send jolts of electricity into House, send his body arching off the bed, trying to shock his heart back into rhythm.

"Clear!"

Each momentary peak on the screen from the jolt of electricity brought the slightest hope, but the following flat-line showed a harsher truth.

"Clear!"

Still nothing.

"Charging to 300, clear!"

Chase gritted his teeth, fought back a panic that rose with each unsuccessful attempt. He had not left the hospital, but he had hoped he wouldn't have to face this situation.

"Clear!"

And finally, there it was, a normal sinus rhythm. Chase suddenly felt weak in the knees, knowing how close it nearly came to being the end. He found himself clutching at the cross he had in his pocket, murmuring a prayer of healing and thanksgiving.

When everyone left the room, Wilson dragged the chair closer to the bed, and sat down again. Taking House's wrist, he felt for the pulse, and didn't let go, reassuring himself that House was hanging on, fighting on.

Sleep did not come easily, but when it did, he let it drag him down into unconsciousness, House's heartbeat under his fingers.

Through it all, the most peaceful of looks remained on House's face. He looked as if he was asleep.

* * *

><p>Sunlight streamed in through the window, and Cuddy awoke to the rays of light shining on her face. At the same time, Rachel stirred, and opened her eyes. Cuddy smiled and kissed her on the forehead.<p>

"Morning, sweetie."

Rachel simply smiled and snuggled closer to her mother.

"I dreamt Hows and I were playing in the park."

Cuddy's smile faded, and she wondered how to explain everything to Rachel, "Honey, remember what happened yesterday?"

Rachel scrunched up her face and searched her memory. "Hows was bringing me to go play but I got an owie on my hand."

"That's right. Does it hurt?" She kissed the bandage that was wrapped around Rachel's forearm. Rachel shook her head.

"Hows?" She questioned beseechingly. Did she know he was hurt? Or was she just asking to see him? Cuddy couldn't tell. She didn't know what to say.

"House got a bigger owie, so he needs to stay with the doctors for a while."

Rachel nodded, a look of understanding on her young cherubic face. She snuggled closer to her mother and whispered.

"I hope he gets better soon."

* * *

><p>Cuddy walked into the hospital, heels clacking as she made her way across the clinic to her office.<p>

All around her, doctors and nurses went about their usual duties, but there was a solemn atmosphere. One that always came when one of their own was injured, fighting for his life. It was a harsh reminder that as doctors and nurses, they seemed to fight against and defy both fate and death with their daily work of saving lives – but ultimately, they weren't gods. They were humans too.

House might have been a jerk who raised hell everyday in the hospital, but he was a respected physician, and he was still _one of them_.

"Dr Cuddy." Brenda approached Cuddy, "How's Rachel?"

"She's fine, thank you."

Brenda looked at Cuddy. She gently put her hand on Cuddy's arm and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"He'll get through this," she whispered.

Nodding slightly, Cuddy clasped Brenda's hand, thankful for the reassurance and for her friend.

* * *

><p>House's team sat around the empty table, half-expecting House to waltz in any moment. Chase was missing – he was resting in the on-call room after staying at the hospital through the night monitoring House's condition. He had given them an update when they came in, and they all knew how critical House's condition was. His heart had stopped beating another time at night. It was touch-and-go.<p>

It was unnerving for them being in this position. Their boss had always been larger-than-life. Despite his limp, he seemed invincible - throwing snarks at them, harrassing nurses and patients and solving medical puzzles with his brilliant mind. He might have been harsh with them at times, but they all knew that he was their mentor, their teacher, and he had made them better doctors.

They left the room, heading to the clinic.

* * *

><p>Thirteen slipped into the room, and walked over to the dozing Wilson, gently waking him.<p>

"Wilson, go grab breakfast, take a shower. I'll take over."

Only after much persuasion did Wilson stumble out of the room, leaving Thirteen alone with House. She walked over to him, and held his hand, tried to convince herself that he could hear her.

"You promised, House." She whispered. "You're supposed to kill me."

She swallowed the lump in her throat. She never cries. She cleared her throat.

"Don't break that promise."

* * *

><p>Cuddy entered the ICU room a few hours later. Taub acknowledged her with a slight nod.<p>

"Dr Cuddy."

"Dr Taub. How is he?"

"Critical, but stable. His condition has been fluctuating." He went back to checking House's chart and adjusting the various machines around House.

Cuddy sank down onto the chair next to House, and reached for his arm. Placing another hand gently over House's chest, she felt the respirator deliver air into House's lungs, felt his chest rise and fall regularly. She didn't say anything, just held on for dear life, taking comfort in the fact that he was still with them.

Taub left, and Wilson entered, having freshened up, eaten breakfast and cancelled all his appointments for the day.

"How's Rachel?"

"She's fine, just a gash."

There was a pause, both of them not knowing what to say with their friend laying unconscious in the bed in front of them.

"He's been shot, had heart attacks, survived a bus crash, skull fracture, deep brain stimulation… He'll be okay. He'll wake up and he'll still be that ass we know. Right?" Wilson said hopefully, reassuringly, trying to convince both Cuddy and himself.

Cuddy, knowing that he too, needed comfort, took her hand from House's chest and grasped Wilson's hand, squeezing it gently.

"He will. He always does."

Wilson sat down next to Cuddy. Together, the two of them watched over their unconscious friend, finding comfort in each other, giving each other hope.


	6. Chapter 6

Longest chapter so far, thanks everyone for the lovely reviews! :)

* * *

><p>They were all doctors. It was ingrained in them that recovery and healing was a rollercoaster process – any step forward towards progress is easily negated by five steps backwards.<p>

Three days after the accident, House developed an infection from one of his many lacerations. The high fever raged through his system, and House's taxed body had nearly given out. He shivered constantly and hard, limbs trembling and shaking from the high fever. Wilson tucked him in with twice the number of blankets, mopped his brow and perspiring body. Nurses changed his sweat-soaked gown and sheets countless times, and brought in ice packs at regular intervals. Seizures wracked his body despite the meds, no doubt compounded by the skull fracture, and weight fell off his body at an alarming rate. Chase ordered an NG tube to be put in, yet another tube added to the countless already snaking out of his body. A particularly violent and lengthy seizure led to ripped stitches, and House had to be operated on again to fix the internal bleeding.

Wilson spent most his time by House's bed, having shifted his paperwork and computer into the room. He sometimes cracked feeble jokes at House, updated him on hospital gossip, kept him up to date with General Hospital and Prescription Passion as he did his paperwork. Or he sat in silence. The silence was mildly unnerving, but he had endured many resentful, awkward and even companiable silences from House all these years (and he would get to endure many more of these silences in the years to come after House woke, he reminded himself) He left only to meet or visit his patients or when Cuddy managed to persuade him to go sleep or eat.

The team continued working under Foreman. They worked just as House would have expected of them – with utmost focus and dedication to their patient. Every once in a while, they would glance towards House's office, half expecting him to be throwing his ball against the wall or tapping his cane against the floor, waiting for him to come up with his last-minute, brilliant diagnosis to cure their current patient.

Cuddy continued to run the hospital like clockwork. But grappling with the inundation of questions from the media and donors about the condition of her famous diagnostician, as well as emotional and physical exhaustion from everything took a toll on her, as she tried to address their questions and worries not as his friend (and ex-lover), but as his boss. Her face became drawn and lines were etched permanently as she looked after the hospital and tried to ensure Wilson didn't unconsciously starve or sleep-deprive himself to death.

Still, she spent hours in House's room everyday. Each night, she would go home and hug Rachel tight, knowing that it was because of House that she could still had Rachel by her side.

Finally, the infection cleared out after a nerve-wrecking five days. But it had taken a toll on House's battered body that had already been working in overdrive to heal itself. He fell one grade lower on the Glasgow coma scale.

* * *

><p>They had attended medical school and were trained to handle all sorts of medical crises and injuries – broken limbs, infectious diseases, cancers. They even learnt how to cut into a living body, learnt how to examine and probe at the organs that kept all body functions going, learnt how to sew together arteries and wounds that still had blood pulsating through them.<p>

But nothing prepared them for the helplessness and fear they felt for his best friend, her ex-lover and friend, their boss, as he lay unconscious there, hoping for him to wake up, knowing that with each passing day he was locked in his unconscious, the lower his chances were of waking up and recovering fully.

A week and a half passed, and still House did not open his blue eyes.

By then, Wilson had all but moved into his office, leaving the hospital only on alternate days. But slowly and surely, he had to go back to his patients and office more often. The team spent less time monitoring House, and more time on their own patients. The hospital slowly returned to normal, doctors and nurses bustling about, most pushing thoughts about the doctor lying in the ICU out of their minds to concentrate on the sick and dying.

Through out each day, Cuddy, Wilson and the team would visit House at different intervals. There was almost always someone in the room with him.

But everyday without fail, one hour before work and one hour after, Cuddy and Wilson would sit together in House's room.

* * *

><p>"Mommy, when can I see Hows again?"<p>

Rachel was lying in bed next to Cuddy. Rachel's bandage had been removed, and the wound was healing nicely. It would leave a scar, "just like those the pirates have!", Rachel had exclaimed excitedly, adding an "ARRRRR" for effect.

Cuddy had smiled, and inwardly promised to give House hell for introducing her daughter to that obnoxious pirate cartoon. When he woke up. He will wake up, she had fiercely told herself.

Cuddy traced the healing wound gently, blowing on it as she knew Rachel liked. "I'm not sure, honey. House's owies still haven't gotten better."

"Why so long?" Rachel's eyebrows scrunched together.

She didn't know how to respond to that.

"Tell you what. Tomorrow is Saturday, so I'll bring you to visit House for a little while, okay?"

"Okay." With that, Rachel sighed contentedly and burrowed closer to her mother, falling asleep with pleasant thoughts and ideas about tomorrow's visit to her Hows.

* * *

><p>Cuddy crouched down next to her daughter in the elevator, and gently cupped her face and looked into the sparkling bright eyes of her daughter.<p>

"Rachel."

"Yes mommy!" Rachel could barely contain her excitement at finally going to see House, she was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. In her hands was a get-well-soon card she had refused to let Cuddy see first.

"Because House has a lot of owies, he will be sleeping. We must be quiet and gentle to not disturb him, alright?"

"Will he wake up to play with me?" Rachel stopped bouncing and looked at her mum, a forlorn look on her face.

Oh, how Cuddy wished he would be able to wake up to play with Rachel. But she knew better than to expect him to be awake, or miraculously awaken with Rachel by his side.

"No, he won't. But he will when he gets better."

Rachel simply nodded her head, wheels turning in her head, thinking of how to help him get better. The small grin returned to her face as the lift stopped and the doors opened.

* * *

><p>"Wilson. Did you even go home last night like I asked you to?"<p>

Cuddy and Rachel entered the room. Wilson was seated next to House, reading a medical journal. He was disheveled, dark eye rings encircling his weary chocolate eyes. His shoulders were stooped, as if carrying the weight of the world.

He gave a half-shrug, smiling slightly, and then embraced Rachel.

"Hi Rachel. I see you've got a cool scar. Here to show it to House?"

Rachel hugged her Uncle Jimmy, and then stepped back and looked into his eyes, She placed her little hands on his cheeks, and said earnestly, "Are you sad, Uncle Jimmy?"

Looking into the eyes of the beautiful little girl whom his best friend had loved and saved, Wilson could not help but feel all the worry and anxiety of the past week weigh down his whole soul, and it culminated in a single tear leaking from his eye, and tricking down down his cheek. He nodded his head slightly.

"I'm just waiting for House to wake up."

"Don't worry Uncle Jimmy. Hows will wake up when he's better!" Rachel wiped the tear away with her palm gently. "So don't be sad." She flung her arms around him and hugged him tighter, trying to send all her love and hope through her hug to her sad Uncle Jimmy.

She let go of Wilson after a while, and turned to look at House. From her innocent eyes, House looked just like when he was lying on the couch dozing during her cartoon after having lost a fight with her for the TV remote and grumbling that her cartoon was boring; or like when he was lying next to Mommy in bed. Except for that funny tube in his mouth.

Uncle Jimmy and Mommy looked so sad; it must be because Hows didn't wake up even when they were here and waiting for him to.

She gripped the bedrail and tiptoed to look at him, whispering excitedly.

"Hi Hows! Mommy said your owies were bad, so I made you a get well soon card!"

She placed the card next to his head. It was a drawing of two pirates – one tall grey-haired pirate with a cane, and one shorter girl pirate with a parrot on her shoulder. Both were holding red lollipops. Underneath it scrawled in the best handwriting of a young child, the words "Get well soon, you bloody scallywag!"

Rachel turned to look at Cuddy. "Can I whisper to him?"

Cuddy composed herself - tears welled up at the sight of the card - and replied, "Sure, honey." She hoisted Rachel up, and let Rachel lean over towards House.

Rachel whispered into his ear, "I love you Hows. Get better soon so we can play."

She reached out a hand to softly, gently touch the healing bruises on his face, and gently blew on them, trying to soothe the pain for him, just like how her mommy always did for her.

Cuddy and Wilson watched Rachel place the most impossibly tender of kisses on House's bruised cheek.

"Wake up soon, House. Love you."

* * *

><p>On the way back home, Rachel was quiet, as though affected by what she had seen in the hospital. Suddenly, as though having held in her thoughts for a long while now, Rachel blurted out,<p>

"You love him right, Mommy? So you will help him feel better?"

Cuddy was momentarily stunned by the question.

_Did she still love House?_ Even before the question was fully formed in her mind, she could _feel_ the answer in her very bones.

Needless to say, she felt guilty for having taken Rachel away from him – she knew Rachel brought out a different side of him. Something softer and warmer. There was a light in his eyes when he talked about her. And he had embraced that side of himself when he was with Rachel. House had given his heart to Rachel just like he had to her, and she had taken that away from him too.

She had ended their relationship because she felt he was incapable of loving someone wholeheartedly with his fear of pain.

Yet right in front of her, her daughter safe and sound, was proof that his love was beyond boundaries.

_She had always loved him._

She had just been afraid of what it entailed, loving a broken, unpredictable man like House.

But the climb back upwards was not going to be easy. House was not going to be the same, not with the trauma, ever again. He would draw his walls up higher and stronger than before, be depressed, stubborn, and he would always push himself harder than necessary and most of all, push her and Wilson away. There was a possibility that it would be like the infarction all over again, and he would self-destruct as he so nearly did all those years ago. It was going to be a difficult path to take.

But perhaps, just perhaps, through it all, after taking away so many things from him, she could find redemption for herself and for their relationship, just like how he had unknowingly redeemed himself in her eyes with his selfless act.

So the question was, did she love him _enough_ to be willing to go through all that with and for him?

As she glanced back at her daughter in the backset, she recalled the love her daughter had shown for House.

She found her answer – it had always been there within her all along.

"Yes, sweetie, I promise."


	7. Chapter 7

An even longer chapter this time! Thank you everyone for the lovely reviews :)

* * *

><p>Wilson sat next to House, reading a medical journal out loud to him. He closed the journal with a sigh, lifting his head to look at his best friend.<p>

Two and a half weeks had passed and still House had not woken.

The rest never knew, mused Wilson, that when House slept, a glimpse of the man he used to be before the infarction would emerge. Even when dozing in his office, his pain and bitterness would show on his face. In a deep sleep however, House seemed years younger. There was no permanent frown, no eyes hiding a tormented soul.

What with all that had happened in the past seven years, it seemed as though House was simply taking an extended vacation away from the people who had hurt him and all the pain that hounded him. Not just from his leg. Looking back, Wilson couldn't blame House for wanting to do so. All those whom he had loved and trusted had in one way or another, betrayed him. Stacy, after defining the rest of his life with her one decision, and had walked out on him. Even worse, she had returned, married. He himself had betrayed House during the whole Tritter saga, and had left him alone to recover from the deep brain stimulation after Amber's death. Cuddy had embarked on a relationship with him telling him not to change, but had ultimately given up on him. They had all hurt him. And he still had his leg to contend with. Who wouldn't want to escape from this reality?

Wilson looked away from House and out the window. Who knew what awaited House when he woke? Part of him hoped like hell for House to regain consciousness, but another was frightened to death for his best friend at what would inevitably come after. What, recovery? Getting used to a life in a wheelchair?

A series of urgent beeps interrupted Wilson's train of thoughts. Fearing yet another crisis, Wilson sprang to his feet and began examining House's monitors for any clue as to what was happening this time.

Nothing.

Wilson looked at House. That tightening of the area around the eyes, that grimace...

"House?"

* * *

><p>Cuddy walked into her office and collapsed onto her couch. She had just finished a board meeting (which Wilson was conspicuously missing from, claiming he had a dying patient). She knew that was a lie – he'd probably gone off to sit in House's room again, unwilling to face the subject matter of the meeting.<p>

The board had convened to discuss the fate of the Diagnostics Department. All doctors and nurses, they knew that with each day House remained unconscious, the lower the likelihood of him waking up. And no one even knew the extent of the brain injury - would he still be the same brilliant man when he woke up?

House was a man who polarized the board – some admired him, some grudgingly accepted him for his intellect and value to the hospital, and some outright hated his guts. And in the board meeting, his supporters and detractors had made themselves clear.

She couldn't blame Wilson for escaping from the meeting. She would have loved to give it a miss as well.

She massaged her temples, trying to ward off a growing headache. The past two weeks had been a nightmare.

The beeping of a pager shook her out of her reverie. Reading the short message, she set off in a run towards the elevators.

* * *

><p>Foreman and Chase were with the latest patient, an obnoxious sixty year old man who had presented with an angry rash and numbness in the extremities, trying to get an accurate patient history, which was proving to be a difficult task. As per usual, Thirteen and Taub were breaking into his house and searching for environmental toxins and other possible clues.<p>

"Where is Dr House? I've been here a whole day and have yet to see him!"

Chase and Foreman glanced at each other. They had encountered this question countless times over the years, thanks to House's practice of not meeting the patients and their relatives, but these past two weeks, this particular question struck a raw nerve in them. It had a markedly different answer.

"Dr House is currently on medical leave." Chase answered the question as neutrally as possible.

"When is he coming back?"

"It is indefinite."

Just then, both Chase and Foreman's pagers started vibrating. They took one glance at it. Immediately abandoning their task at hand, they left the patient's room at a sprint, ignoring his loud protests at their unprofessionalism.

* * *

><p>Cuddy, Foreman and Chase burst into the room, all having received Wilson's page.<p>

Wilson was standing over House, speaking in a low but urgent voice, "House, can you hear me? Open your eyes."

Immediately, they too, noticed a change in House's facial expression. Foreman and Chase immediately started checking on House's vitals and reading information from the monitors and machines that had helped tether House to the living world for the past two weeks. Cuddy clutched House's hand, and held it to her bosom, as she had three years ago when he awoke from the coma after deep brain stimulation.

His eyelids fluttered.

* * *

><p>He was fighting his way out of the fog, but as the fog got clearer and clearer, he grew more and more weary. He felt as if a huge weight was weighing upon his entire body. He couldn't move anything, but something told him he needed to open his eyes.<p>

As he wrestled for control of his body, he felt it.

That which had been his coy mistress for so many years, had returned. It snuck up slowly upon him, its tendrils perversely and almost tenderly coiling around him, snaking up on him, surrounding his bones. He shuddered at its contact, knowing what was to come.

The tendrils transformed into metal wires. They tightened, cutting into him, and the pain instantly hit him full blast. His chest, his arm, his head, they all hurt. The fog dissipated instantly, and he opened his eyes.

"House. Can you hear me?"

House's lids opened to reveal his cerulean eyes. Blank and unseeing at first, they sharpened immediately.

Cuddy stroked House's forehead. Wilson's hand was on House's arm. They both tried to bring him back to them with their touch. They both felt tension return to his muscles. They looked into his eyes, and immediately they saw panic and pain.

House immediately began fighting the ventilator, choking and biting on it. Somewhere in his mind it registered that he should stop resisting the ventilator, but the pain dulled his mind and made him act instinctively to fight the foreign object in his mouth and throat that was stopping him from drawing a full breath of air. Oh God, his head. There were knives in his brain, twisting and turning. His chest. He couldn't breathe. Why?

"House! Calm down, we'll remove it. House!"

But he couldn't hear anything. Not with pain, the roar of it in his ears.

Wilson leaned over closer to House, planting his face right in front of House's.

"House. Stop struggling. We'll remove it after you stop. Don't fight it. "

Wilson. Wilson said calm down. House tried to relax.

Chase swiftly removed the tube as painlessly as possible, and immediately a mask was clamped over House's face. Due to his broken ribs, his lungs had been damaged, and his breathing was compromised. No one was taking any chances.

The process was rough, and as soon as the cool oxygen began entering House's lungs again, he felt his eyelids start to close. He was exhausted, in pain. He shifted, trying to escape the pain. He gasped. Everything hurt. He wanted to succumb to the inviting darkness, leave the pain behind in the conscious.

"House. Stay awake." Foreman's voice grated in his head. House ignored him, continued shifting. But then a female voice cut through the wall of pain. He felt a pair of small, familiar hands grasping his own hands.

"House, let Foreman do the neuro checks."

He grunted and continued shifting in the bed in response.

"House, open your eyes. Can you tell me where you are?"

But he couldn't. He needed to move. But every tiny movement brought more pain. Everything hurt. A moan escaped his lips. He had to move. Find a more comfortable position. Escape the pain. He screwed his eyes shut tighter. Tears leaked out of his eyes. Why did everything hurt so much?

"His brain injury is making him restless."

"Not to mention the pain, goddamnit! Just give him the meds."

"But that would compromise the neuro checks!"

"To hell with the neuro checks! Just put him out of his agony. We'll do the checks later."

Moments later, House felt blessed relief course through his veins. A sigh of relief. He closed his eyes and escaped from the conscious and the pain.

* * *

><p>Cuddy, Wilson, Foreman and Chase watched as House gradually stilled and relaxed as the painkillers were injected into his IV.<p>

Cuddy gently wiped away the tracks of the tears that had found their way out of House's eyes with the pads of her thumbs. That, together with his moans, were both the body's instinctive responses to pain - she knew that - but they were coming from a man whom she knew was so used to hiding his excruciating pain. Her chest constricted painfully at his suffering.

Wilson, Foreman and Chase exchanged glances. House had been totally unresponsive to their questions and instructions, and had only shifted restlessly and mumbled incoherent words. They had no way of ascertaining whether or not he had suffered any brain damage. They could only wait and see.

* * *

><p>House drifted in and out of consciousness over the next two days, each time mumbling incoherently and moving restlessly in bed as his pain levels spiked. The lines returned to his face, and etched themselves more deeply. Only after a new dose of painkillers and sedatives were injected would he fall still peacefully again.<p>

Each time, his legs didn't move.

* * *

><p>Cuddy dozed in the couch she had ordered to be placed in House's room, head leaning back against the wall. Wilson was curled in the recliner next to House's bed. Since House had regained consciousness three days ago, they had barely left the room, waiting for him to come back to them fully conscious again.<p>

House opened his eyes slowly.

At last he didn't feel the dire need to move around in the bed, to escape from the pain. For once, the pain was tolerable.

He was in the hospital. ICU. Why? He searched his mind for the answer, drawing a blank. He panicked slightly, why couldn't he remember anything? He closed his eyes.

Going to the park. An SUV barreled towards him. Metal all around him. Pain. Rachel. His chest constricted painfully at the thought of being trapped by all that metal. He had thought he was never going to get out.

He opened his eyes. His gaze fell upon Wilson.

"W..Wilson." It came out as a breathy whisper. Not loud enough.

"Wilson." He strained his voice, lapsing into a coughing fit. Sharp pangs of pain radiated through his torso.

Wilson awoke with a start, conditioned to spring awake at any slight disturbance after three weeks of monitoring House's condition. Seeing House in a feeble coughing fit, he removed the nasal cannula and placed over House's nose and mouth the oxygen mask. House's coughing fit subsided slowly. He took shallow breaths, trying to avoid aggravating the pain.

Wilson broke into a smile. "House. Welcome back."

By now, Cuddy was awake as well, and she approached the bed. House saw her and was surprised. He didn't expect her to be there. He thought it had been Wilson alone.

Cuddy wore an expression of relief. Had she been worried for him?

"H…How long w-was I out-t?"

Wilson and Cuddy frowned slightly at each other. Was House stuttering?

"You were in a coma for three weeks. You crashed twice in surgery and twice times after. Broken ribs, arms, legs, serious head trauma. Chase removed your spleen. Infection from one of your lacerations set in three days after, and you ran a fever for five days with multiple seizures." Wilson knew House wanted all the details, and listed them straightaway, trying to save House the breath and energy he would use from probing further.

House closed his eyes. It had been bad.

Instinctively, his hands tentatively went to clutch his thigh. Both legs were still there. Relief coursed through his veins. He still had his legs. His injuries would heal, and he still had his legs. And there was none of the pain he had expected. No cramping from days of inactivity. Painkillers, his true best friends.

Wilson saw, and cringed inwardly. Still, he said nothing. He didn't want to destroy House's spirit that soon, not after he had just returned to them after a three week coma.

"How are you feeling?" Cuddy asked tentatively.

He was reminded of her presence. Then of Rachel. His heart sped up. Was she safe?

"R-Rachel?"

Cuddy, smiling as relief washed over her upon seeing House awake, took his hand. "Thanks to you, just a gash."

Safe. That was good. He didn't think he could forgive himself if she had gotten hurt.

"I-I'm s-s-sorry." He knew he owed her an apology. He had been driving the car after all. He brought Rachel out.

"Don't apologise House. She's alive, thanks to you."

He closed his eyes. He was so tired. Guilt rode alongside the wave of fatigue that washed up on him. He never should have brought Rachel out. She could have died. Better him being in a hospital bed than her. Otherwise, Cuddy would never have forgiven him. He would never have forgiven himself.

Foreman arrived, having been paged by Wilson.

"House." He didn't show much emotion, just nodded his head and acknowledged House. He was glad that House had finally woken, but he wasn't used to showing relief or any other emotion in front of his boss. Not when they were at loggerheads most of the time. He kept his feelings hidden behind his mask of professionalism.

House could only manage a wane smile. "Miss me?" He croaked, the oxygen mask muffling most of his sarcasm.

"Repeat after me. Truck, basketball, flower."

"T-truck-k. B-bask-ketball. F-flower."

Foreman proceeded with the rest of the neuro checks, leading House through them like any other patient, ignoring the eye rolls and huffs that House gave at his instructions. Of course House knew how neuro checks went. But as they progressed, House visibly began to fade. He fought the urge to close his eyes.

"Last question, House. Then you can rest. Repeat the three words I told you at the beginning."

There was a long silence. House's eyes fluttered close. Foreman nearly thought House was asleep when he finally whispered,"F-flower, t-t-truck-k, b-b-basket-t-ball." There was a long pause between each word.

Crap, thought Wilson. Definitely a stutter. It had gotten worse as House tired. Cuddy noticed as well, and unconsciously, she grabbed Wilson's forearm tightly.

"Rest well, House. You did fine."

Foreman gave a clipped nod, and turned to face Cuddy and Wilson. They knew he had noticed the stutter as well. House, for some reason, seemed oblivious to it for the moment. His sensory perceptions and thoughts were probably still dulled somewhat by residues of the sedatives and painkillers.

But the neuro checks had gone well. House had taken some time to respond to the questions, but that was to be expected. He was extremely lucky. As Wilson, Cuddy and Foreman turned to leave the room, House grabbed Wilson's arm.

"T-talk h-here."

"Rest, House. Your eyelids are drooping. Not an attractive look."

House acquiesced, and let his arm fall back onto bed. He was tired. He let his eyelids fall. He shifted, and tried to get into a more comfortable position to fall asleep.

Wait, something was wrong. Why couldn't he turn his body?

A thought struck in his mind.

No pain.

No pain, but no movement as well. He couldn't move his legs. Oh god. He clenched his fists, trying to concentrate all his willpower into moving his legs. Nothing. They were a deadweight.

His eyes sprang open wide. He felt his heart rate increasing, his chest hurt as his heart thudded hard and loud.

No no no, calm down. Of course you can move your legs.

He moved his hands down desperately to grab at his knees. He couldn't feel them. He flung off the blankets. He closed his eyes, moved his hands over both his thighs. There was no sensation at all. He couldn't even tell if his hands were touching his legs. He grabbed the cup from the table next to him, and flung it at his legs. Nothing. He moved his right hand to his scar. He applied pressure that would normally have had him screaming in pain.

No pain. No feeling.

Oh God.

His breaths became harsh and loud, fogging up the oxygen mask. He couldn't breathe with that goddamn thing covering his nose and mouth. He yanked off the oxygen mask.

"W-Wilson. W-W-Wilson!"

He tried to get out of bed. Yet again, that terrifying lack of sensation. Lack of movement. He bent over, ignoring the stabbing pains in his chest, and pushed his legs to the side of the bed, intending to get out of bed. He had to walk, confront Wilson about this. He drew in deep, rattling breaths.

Using his good arm, he got himself to the edge of the bed. Adrenaline propelled him.

"W-Wilson!" He had to find him. Ask him what the hell was happening.

He pushed himself to his feet. For a moment, he was on his two feet. All was fine. He could stand.

Then he found himself free-falling downwards, yanking on the movable hospital table to keep himself upright, his legs uselessly crumpling below him. He landed with a thud on the ground, the shock of hitting the ground reverberating through his entire body. His temple hit the edge of the cabinet next to him. The IV and wires were unceremoniously ripped out of his body. The table overturned and landed with a resounding crash on the floor, just inches from him. But he didn't notice it. All he noticed was how he was in a position that should have made it goddamn painful for his broken legs.

But there was nothing.

Wilson and Cuddy ran into the room, having heard the commotion. They froze at the sight of House on the ground, scrambling to pull himself off the ground with his legs folded uselessly under him. House was in a blind panic. His whole body was trembling at the shock of falling, cold sweat breaking out. But his legs were unnervingly still.

"G-God-d-dammnit-t! M-m-move!"

House beat his legs, pushing them, trying to make them move. He ignored the blood that dripped from the side of his forehead and his IV site, ignored his broken arm that he was using to beat his legs. He ignored the shockwaves of pain from his head, torso and arms. There was only adrenaline from the full-blown panic.

Wilson ran over to House and grabbed his arms, holding him still.

"House. Stop. Stop it!"

But House did not listen. He didn't even feel Wilson's arms on him. He only knew he had to get his legs to move. He lashed out, flinging his arms out and around.

Cuddy pressed her fingers against House's neck. His heart rate was alarmingly fast. He was gasping for air in rapid shallow breaths. She grabbed the oxygen mask dangling over the bed and clamped it over his face. House shoved her hand away roughly.

"G-g-get off m-me! M-m-must st-st-stand!"

Cuddy looked at Wilson, who still held his arms tight around House, who was trying his best to wriggle out of Wilson's hold, beating his legs, trying to push them into position to stand and grabbing onto the hospital bed rail to pull himself into a standing position, all at once. House's desperate movements smeared blood all over Wilson's shirt and tie.

"S-Stop! W-W-Wilson! Let-t-t m-me g-go!"

"Sedate him," mouthed Wilson.

Ignoring the tears that had pooled in her eyes, Cuddy grabbed a syringe of Ativan and swiftly injected House with it. House struggled weakly against the sedative, all the while mumbling about his legs.

Finally, he grew slack in Wilson's arms, his head dropping onto Wilson's shoulders, all the adrenaline and fight leaving him.


	8. Chapter 8

Wilson released his death-grip on House's limp form, exhaling a breath he didn't know he had been holding. Cuddy's hand was over her mouth, eyes blinking back tears.

A nurse appeared in the doorway, having heard the commotion as well. Catching sight of her, Cuddy regained her composure.

"Please get a new IV and a suture kit." Cuddy regained her composure, and tried to regain control of the situation that had so rapidly gone out of control. Her voice, though, held an unmistakable tremor.

The nurse, understanding a dismissal when hinted at, disappeared from the doorway.

"Oh god. I should have just told him right from the start." Wilson was horrified. "I did it _again_. I did what I thought was best for him."

Cuddy swallowed hard. She had been just as bad as Wilson. _They_ did it again. For so many years they had colluded together to deal with House, and they had done it again.

"We… We both did it." Her voice was a ragged whisper. "Let's get him back into bed."

Wilson wrapped his arms around House's torso and under his armpits, and lifted his friend back onto bed gently. Cuddy lifted House's legs – _would he ever be able to move them on his own again? – _on to the bed, and covered House's still body with the blanket, pushing the thought that he might always require someone to do that for him from now on, out of her mind.

Taking the supplies from the nurse who had silently been waiting at the doorway, Wilson began to clean and stitch the gash that now adorned House's left temple. Cuddy reinserted the IV and checked House once over, making sure there were no new injuries.

Cuddy and Wilson worked silently on their vulnerable friend, not knowing what to expect of the future.

* * *

><p>Cuddy walked into the nearest washroom, entered a stall and simply sat down. The feelings of guilt and shock overwhelmed her, and she tried her best to suppress the sob that rose up and out of her.<p>

All the years she had known House, she had never seen that look of pure terror and desperation he had when he was on the floor trying to scramble to his feet. House _never _lost control of his feelings like that. He usually hid them, suppressed them and buried them in scotch and Vicodin, with only the slightest hints of his emotions in his expressive blue eyes. She had only seen him with so much raw emotion once, after the crane collapse just over a year ago. Then, he had nearly thrown away a drug-free year.

This time, it was so much worse.

She wiped the tears from her face. And so she reminded herself – she would be there for him again, to pull him back from the brink, to prevent him from falling over that treacherous cliff he would surely find himself teetering over.

* * *

><p>Wilson closed the door of his office and leaned over his desk. He had done it again. Looking at the crimson smears of blood all over his shirt, Wilson shuddered.<p>

All these years, he had witnessed House at his lowest – so drunk he couldn't string together a bunch of words together, overdosing in Vicodin, blocking out emotion and pain with sex and hookers, hallucinating and delusional. The last of which had resulted in a stay in Mayfield. House had been terrified then, but even so, his emotions were locked within him, he still had his walls up, their car journey on the way there was in silence. The unadulterated fear and panic fear was not what he had expected from his friend. He expected anger, resentment, and blame. But House had _pleaded_ and struggled in Wilson's arms, not caring about hiding his emotions or the so carefully projected image he had built over the years after the infarction to protect himself.

Wilson changed out of his stained clothes and returned to House's room. He sure as hell didn't deserve to be there, but he had to make things right.

* * *

><p>House opened his eyes.<p>

Everything hurt with a renewed vigour. This time, though, he was well-aware of the lack of pain in his legs. He closed his eyes. This was all a bad dream. What had happened was all a bad dream. He would be able to move his legs.

He concentrated all his willpower and strength on his legs, trying to move them, grunting slightly with the effort. Nothing. He tried again. And again. His chest constricted painfully.

"Give me a level." Cuddy was beside him. He became aware of her clasp on his right hand. He said nothing.

"House."

"S-S-Sev-v-ven." He was still groggy. But he noticed the stutter. His eyes remained closed. Yet another part of his body had failed him.

Cuddy injected some painkiller into his IV. He didn't care and didn't feel like caring what kind it was, as long as it took the pain away.

Wilson joined Cuddy at the bedside. Almost automatically, he started rubbing the back of his neck.

"House. I'm so sorry…"

Eyes still closed, House interrupted Wilson. "G-Give m-me my ch-chart and-d films."

"House. I…"

"W-Wilson. S-Stop." House's tone was flat. Knowing that nothing he said would change anything for House, Wilson passed the chart and films to House.

House finally opened his eyes and scrutinized them, reading through the scribblings of Chase and his other doctors, as well as the films from the various scans he had undergone. The tension in the room was so thick Cuddy and Wilson felt like they couldn't breathe.

House let his hands drop back onto the bed again, and closed his eyes. The fractures in his skull and spine were bad. The chart and films scattered all over the bed.

"Get-t out-t." He tried his best to keep his tone flat and emotionless, but a slight tremor in his voice betrayed him. Cuddy and Wilson exchanged looks.

Wilson stumbled over his words, "House, we should talk. You can't…"

"G-Get out-t."

"Come on, House…"

"J-just g-get out-t."

Cuddy tried this time, "House we know this is overwhelming, but…"

By now, House's entire body was trembling. His stutter made his demands for them to leave his room weak and feeble, and he hated it.

"G-Get out-t! J-Just g-g-get out-t-t!"

Cuddy and Wilson stood still in their spots. They didn't know what to say to House. Comfort and sympathy just didn't work with House. But it wasn't right to leave.

"L-Leave m-me alone!"

House was shaking all over, but he knew, he could feel that his legs did not move with the rest of his body. He could hear the stutter that emerged from his mouth and made his own voice sound foreign and weak. It made him feel weak. So goddamn useless. He grabbed the papers and clipboard that were over his lap, and flung them towards the door. The films and paper fluttered harmlessly back onto the bed over his dead legs, and the clipboard didn't even manage to travel halfway across the room. _Goddamn weak_, he thought bitterly.

"G-g-get-t –_gasp_- Out-t-t!"

Wilson saw how House struggled to breathe, and immediately clapped an oxygen mask over House's face. House immediately smacked Wilson's hand and the mask away, turning his head away from them, struggling to get air into his still-healing lungs.

Cuddy looked at the various monitors in their room, their beeps and readings reflecting House's rising agitation. "Wilson, we should leave," she murmured, tugging on Wilson's elbow. She didn't want to have to sedate House again. Wilson shrugged her hand off and opened his mouth to speak again but she interrupted him.

"House, we'll leave if you calm down. And keep the mask on." She picked up the mask and fastened it onto House's face, careful to keep her voice calm. Any emotion she showed at this point would have been interpreted as pity, which he detested.

Slowly becoming aware of how he struggled to breathe, House left the mask on his face. But he didn't turn to look at them.

Cuddy tugged at Wilson's arm and led him firmly to the door. She turned back to glance at House, who was still staring out the window. But she could still see his blue eyes.

And as she left the room, she was sure she saw his beautiful eyes dull as the life behind them sputtered and died.


	9. Chapter 9

House lay in the hospital bed, breathing heavily from his earlier outburst. He felt trapped in the lumpy hospital bed. The countless monitors, tubes and wires surrounding him just reminded him of how he was trapped in his failing body. It had finally failed him, after countless encounters with illness, injury and death.

So many times since the infarction, the constant pain in his right thigh had driven him to find new methods to treat and eliminate the pain, all of which had failed. Except for the Vicodin. The pain and the Vicodin had ruined him. It wrecked havoc on his personal life. Stacy, Cuddy, who both left him.

Only Wilson stayed. Wilson was a constant he was glad for, though he would never admit it.

But this time, the lack of pain and the deadweight that was his useless legs are just stark reminders of what he no longer can do. No need to use the cane anymore. Can't walk. Can't run. Can't ride on the bike, experience the freedom that the breeze and speed give him. Can't play the piano pedals. Can't even stand to pee anymore. Can't step on the accelerator. Can't climb the stairs. Can't see over counters in the hospital. Can't reach the books on the higher shelves.

Then there was the stutter. When he opened his mouth to speak, he could only hear a weak voice, stuttering, stumbling over the simplest of words.

_Just a weakling_, his father used to say.

Rage suddenly swelled up in him. Pure anger and resentment at what the universe had thrown at him. It was just proof that there wasn't a god out there.

He didn't need pity or sympathy. He hated it. He hated relying on others for help. But that would be all he would be getting in the future.

_The wheelchair-bound doctor with a stutter. _

Cuddy and Wilson probably feel guilty as hell. But he doesn't blame them. Not their fault_. It's_ _no one's fault._ It's the truth. There's no one to blame for his legs this time. No Stacy going against his wishes, no Cuddy at fault. And that makes the anger just so much harder to deal with. There was no one to blame.

He could never blame Rachel.

He calmed down as he caught sight of the card that she had made him, propped proudly by his bedside table. He reached out and took the card, smirking slightly at the red suckers and pirate cartoon references.

As his brain commands him to sleep, he holds the card tight.

* * *

><p>Moments later, Cuddy slips back into House's room as he sleeps.<p>

She quietly gathers the files and papers that he had flung on the floor, and tucks the blankets securely around him. She sees the card he is gripping tightly, and smiles slightly. This is the House she loved. He had a hidden wealth of love and emotion, though concealed it with his aloof exterior and lewd comments because he was afraid of being loved.

She didn't blame him for chasing them out of the room earlier. That was just how he is – he chooses to deal with his emotions alone. She knows.

She settles in the chair, and simply watches House as he sleeps. As night falls, she gently places a kiss on House's forehead, and leaves the room as quietly as she entered.

House watches her silhouette as she leaves his dark room. He had woken just as Cuddy had fallen asleep in the chair. But he didn't chase her out.

She looked so weary, but so beautiful. He felt comforted by the simple fact that she is near him. He kept his eyes closed, and savoured her presence. Not since the breakup had they been able to be so close to one another without lapsing into arguments and taking shallow jibes at one another.

She left him to fend for himself against his demons when she broke up with him. She told him he was an incredible man, and she never wanted him to change. In the end, she left him standing shell-shocked in his doorway, watching her walk away. She broke his heart, she walked away from him. _But he never walked away from her. _He never will be able to.

He still loves her.

But he doesn't dare hope now. He is so much more damaged this time. She doesn't deserve a misanthropic, bitter man who is paralysed from the waist down. She deserves so much more. She deserves happiness and someone who can give her that.

So he quietly watches her leave.

* * *

><p>It was a long journey of recuperation. Being in a coma for weeks had left him physically weak, and simple tasks left him exhausted. That, and the stutter meant that he had to go through physical and speech therapy. As expected, House was resistant to them both, and resentful of his own physical limitations. He terrified the nurses and snarked at the doctors and therapists, undermining and defying their instructions. Cuddy received countless complaints. Wilson had to use his gentlemanly charm on the nurses, apologizing on behalf on House and thanking them for their dedicated care of House.<p>

To almost everyone, it seemed like he was still the same old jerk who was the worst patient ever.

But Cuddy and Wilson saw through him. He had become quieter and more withdrawn, choosing not to speak unless necessary because of his stutter. Whenever he had to accept someone's help, there was in his eyes less anger and determination, but more resignation and a haunting kind of sadness.

Many a time, before entering his room, they stood outside and watched him.

Sometimes, he would be staring wistfully out the window at the people walking in and out of the hospital. Sometimes, he would be unconsciously gripping his right thigh despite the fact that there was no pain there anymore. Sometimes his eyes were closed but the tell-tale lines around his eyes, his mouth pressed into a determined grimace and tiniest of grunts would tell them that he was desperately trying to feel and move his legs.

Even in front of Wilson, his best friend, House was reluctant to speak because of his stutter. For Cuddy, fewer lewd comments came out from House's mouth. The team came and visited House with cases, and differentials were conducted in his room. But gone were most of the insults and snide remarks that always accompanied his dismissal of their theories.

He was a shadow of his old larger-than-life self.

* * *

><p>House was struck with a migraine on a particularly bad day. He had been susceptible to them ever since the deep brain stimulation, and the recent skull fracture had exacerbated the condition.<p>

His upper torso was weak and trembling from all the exercises the therapists had put him through on that particularly grueling day. As he leaned over his bed to retch from the agony of knives twisting and turning in his head, he had over-balanced, and ended up falling from his bed and into a pool of his own vomit in full view of Cuddy and Wilson. They could feel the bitterness and embarrassment emanating from House's hunched form as they approached him. He panted and struggled against them futilely as they hoisted him back into bed without a word.

"G-get out!" he had yelled.

He didn't let anyone into the room for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

><p>The door to the room slid open with a gentle whoosh. House fought off the sleep that he was about to surrender to after his PT session and opened his eyes blearily, only to see Cuddy and Rachel hand in hand in his doorway. His eyes widened slightly.<p>

Rachel immediately snatched her hand away from Cuddy's, and ran towards House with her arms outstretched. "HOWWWWWWS!" she squealed.

House felt conflicted. He didn't want to see Rachel, what with his stutter and useless legs. But before he could say anything, Rachel clambered onto House's bed using the chair next to the bed.

"Rachel!" Cuddy admonished.

House surprised both her and himself. "'S'okay," he mumbled. His arms immediately went around Rachel's waist to prevent her from falling off the bed. Cuddy's face softened, and she sat down on the chair. House's arms immediately retreated from around Rachel's waist once she was no longer precariously at the edge of the bed.

Rachel sat cross-legged on the bed and faced House. She looked into his cerulean eyes. "No more owie?" she whispered tentatively.

"N-no," the stutter revealed itself in his soft response.

Rachel didn't react to his stutter. She started to clamber into his lap. Before she settled her weight down though, she froze midway. "Here?" She gently stroked his right thigh, barely touching it. She knew that place always hurt.

He bowed his head and broke eye contact with her, swallowing hard. He simply shook his head, unable to say anything without breaking the fragile hold on his emotions. Rachel wrapped her arms around him, as though sensing the emotional storm within him. "No pain. I glad you feel better, Hows," she sighed contentedly into his chest.

House glanced at Cuddy, slightly uncomfortable at her witnessing all this. His arms remained by his side, flat on the bed. He didn't know what to do with them. But she only glanced down at her Blackberry, pretending to be busy.

Rachel bounced suddenly, and reluctant to leave House, reached her hand out towards her mother, and sounding extraordinarily like Cuddy, said. "Bag please, mommy."

Cuddy handed her the pink backpack, and Rachel reached in to retrieve two red lollipops. She thrust one into House's face with a self-satisfied grin and twinkle in her eye. "Here Hows! Suckers! One for you and one for me."

House could not help but smirk, and immediately popped it into his mouth. Cuddy shook her head in exasperation, hiding her smile. She had been practically forced by her daughter to grab them from the nurses' counter.

"Look Hows! Cool scar, like a real pirate." Rachel enthusiastically brandished her arm in front of House's eyes, waving her sucker excitedly in the air.

"V-very cool. N-now all you n-need is a p-parrot-t." He wiggled his eyebrows at her, not-so-subtly hinting that she should bug her mommy for a parrot.

"Please don't give her any ideas, House. It's bad enough that you introduced her to that obnoxious cartoon…" Cuddy was interrupted by the ringing of her Blackberry. She sighed.

"I've got to take this…"

"S-Spawn s-safe with m-me."

Cuddy strode out of the room. Now that House and Rachel were truly alone together, House felt more at ease interacting with the little girl.

"N-not a b-bad c-card," he mumbled, gesturing to the card proudly propped on his bedside table.

"Silly! Card help make your owie better," giggled the innocent little girl who firmly believed in the healing powers of a card made with love.

"Mhmm."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, enjoying each other's company and sucking on their red suckers. Rachel snuggled deeper into House's embrace. "Love you, Hows. Happy your owies are gone."

There was no response from House. Rachel looked up, and saw that he had dozed off. She smacked a loud kiss on his scruffy cheek, giggling happily at how she was doing something he absolutely detested.

He stirred and grumbled, "Ewwwwwwwww."

She grinned at him, and settled herself comfortably in his lap, sucking contentedly on her red sucker. Everything was good.

Cuddy entered the room 20 minutes later, and was greeted by the sight of Rachel and House both snoring gently. Some time while she was gone, House's arms had finally found their way around Rachel's sleeping form. His hands interlocked to form a warm embrace within which Rachel was safe.


	10. Chapter 10

**Apologies for the delay - I've only just completed my exams. ****And so here it is. Reviews are greatly appreciated :) **

* * *

><p>"Ready to go?"<p>

It had taken months, but it was finally time for House to be discharged from the hospital. Wilson bustled into the room, holding discharge papers in his hands. He placed them in front of House, who signed them off with a scowl.

"D-did you h-have to g-go to T-timbuk-ktu t-to g-get them or what-t?"

House's stutter was getting better slowly but surely. He had always prided himself for his snark and wit, and had been determined to get his speech back to normal in order to continue wrecking havoc with his scathing remarks. So he had been surprisingly compliant with the speech therapists. The same couldn't be said about his physical therapists though.

Wilson brought the wheelchair over next to House's bed and took the papers from House. "Gonna pass these to the nurses first." He turned on his heels and walked out the room. House hated to show any form of weakness, and did not appreciate anyone witnessing him struggling to get into the wheelchair. Not even his best friend.

Wilson came back two minutes later only to see House sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed and body tense while his legs hung off the bed, unnervingly still. He stopped short at the door, not wanting to barge in to what seemed like a very private moment for House. He had witnessed many short moments like these where House would try again and again to move his legs. After a while, House raised his head and wearily began to maneuver himself into the wheelchair. Wilson gave him a few moments to settle in before stepping into the room.

"Flirting w-with th-the nurses ag-gain?"

"I had to do some damage control. You do know three nurses requested for transfers while you were here right?"

* * *

><p>They stepped off the elevator and into the bustling lobby, and almost immediately, Wilson felt House tense at the large amount of people milling around. Even prior to the accident, the lobby was too public a place for a man who hated pity and attention.<p>

Almost immediately, some young nurse with absolutely no self-awareness and knowledge of how things worked at the hospital with House came up to them. "Dr House! So good to see you up and around. Feeling much better?"

Wilson was half pissed at the nurse for actually coming up to them and trying to engage House in a conversation since his stutter was still noticeable, and half terrified for her at what was to shoot out of House's mouth. Before he could say a thing to diffuse the prickly situation, House snorted and wheeled himself away from the chirpy nurse. But he was not to leave the hospital without being interrupted by at least two other doctors and nurses.

Just as they were about to reach the door, trouble arrived in the form of Dr Packett. House and Packett were at loggerheads, the latter never having gotten over how House had practically proclaimed at a hospital function how Packett had had an affair with a nurse and brought home to his wife a "stowaway". Packett was on the board of directors, and one of the most vocal detractors of House in the hospital. Wilson bristled as he saw Packett appear.

Packett smoothly stepped in front of the wheelchair, and forced House to an abrupt stop. Wilson cringed. Packett was a short and stout man, and House usually towered over him. But this time, House had to look up at Packett.

"Dr House."

House merely gave a curt nod, still reluctant to speak, especially with Packett. He was not going to give him the satisfaction. He made to move towards the side to pass him, but Packett stepped in front of the wheelchair, again blocking his way.

"It's good to see that you've recovered, House. You had us all _so_ worried when you were in that coma. Of course, it's good to have no pain and no longer be a drug addict huh?"

House stiffened and dropped his eyes to the ground. Packett continued in his condescending tone of voice.

"But of course, it must be dreadful that you can't walk anymore. I was just thinking of how I hadn't seen you limp around for quite a while."

Wilson literally felt his blood boil over. House made no move; he simply hunched over in his wheelchair and stared at the ground very intently, his hands gripping his legs so tight his knuckles were white. Wilson grabbed the wheelchair handles and gritted his teeth. He shoved the chair forward and hit Packett in the shins.

"Ow! What the–"

"Oh I'm _so_ sorry, you were standing in the way."

Wilson barged past Packett, taking special care to roll the wheelchair over Packett's toes. House felt the slight bump, and turned back to see at Packett clutching his toes and hopping around. He looked up at Wilson, and gave a tight smile. _But it didn't reach his eyes_, noticed Wilson.

Cuddy was waiting out front for them with her car, since Wilson had yet to receive his new car. Wilson opened the backseat door for House, and as he made a move to help House transfer into the car, House glared at him and swatted his hands away. Gripping onto the handles in the car, House hoisted himself off the wheelchair into the car. He then placed his arms under his unmoving legs, and lifted them in. By the end of the whole process, House was breathing hard with unused to the physical exertion. He leaned his head back against the seat of the car, and closed his eyes.

Wilson shut the door and stuffed the wheelchair in the boot before getting in next to Cuddy in front. Cuddy sensed the tension in both House and Wilson, and as she started the car, she asked, "Everything alright?"

Wilson shot her a glance telling her that everything was _not _all right. But he nodded, jerked his head towards House and said, "Yeah. Let's go."

* * *

><p>They pulled up in front of House's apartment. Wilson had tried to persuade House to move back with him into the loft, but House had each time adamantly insisted on going back to 221B. Further argument just caused him to retreat further into his shell and draw his walls up.<p>

Cuddy and Wilson had taken it upon themselves to make the apartment more wheelchair-friendly. They had ramps installed where there were steps, handles installed for easy transfer in the toilet, and they had even shifted the furniture around the small apartment in order to make space for the wheelchair. Cuddy and Wilson watched nervously as House wheeled himself into his sanctuary.

House surveyed the apartment, and visibly tensed. He wheeled himself to his bedroom and shut the door without saying a word.

"That went well," sighed Wilson as he ran his hands through his hair.

"What happened earlier?"

"That bastard Packett practically accosted us in the lobby. He was taking revenge for what House did last year. But God, Cuddy, House didn't even fight back or lash out with some scathing remark! He just sat there and took it all in!"

Looking at Wilson's agitation, Cuddy remarked dryly, "And I'm certain you made sure to roll over Packett's toes right?" Wilson sheepishly smiled. Cuddy couldn't suppress a grin. But she soon turned serious.

"We can't let this become post-infarction part two. Wilson, I know I broke up with House and all, but I will definitely still be around, okay?"

Wilson sat silently for a while, before probing. "Where is this going, Cuddy? These past few months…"

"I don't know, Wilson." Cuddy bit her lip.

"I've told you that the break-up was a mistake, and I still believe in that. The both of you love each other, and you obviously still do love him."

"I know, Wilson. I promised Rachel I would help him. And I want to help him."

"Then you better make clear to yourself what you're expecting out of this, Cuddy. It's one thing to help him as a friend and another as a lover. Don't cause him more pain and uncertainty, not when he has this much to deal with."

* * *

><p>Cuddy knocked on House's bedroom door as Wilson prepared dinner for the three of them. There was no answer. She opened the door to see House still seated in the wheelchair, but leaning over with his head in his arms on the bed, dozing. Cuddy walked over, and sat down on the bed next to him. She reached out, and gently touched his scruff.<p>

"House, wake up. Wilson's prepared dinner, come on." She walked out after he started stirring, not wanting to invade his space.

House finally wheeled himself out, and joined them at the dining table, daring them to tell him that the wheelchair was too low for the dining table. Cuddy and Wilson kept their mouths shut.

"What-t, I n-need t-two babysit-t-ters now?" grumbled House as he poked at his plate of pasta.

"In case you didn't know, it's perfectly normal for three friends to have dinner together," remarked Cuddy.

"Yeah, right-t. I c-can practic-c-cally _feel_ the hov-v-ering you guys are d-doing."

"Oh please. I'm giving you a week off work by the way."

Wilson cleared his throat. It was time to broach the touchy subject. "Actually, House, a pipe burst at the loft yesterday, and it flooded. Repairs are being done so I've got nowhere to stay. Can I crash here for a few days?"

"No."

"Come on, House –"

"I d-don't need-d your help."

"I'm not saying that. "

"I know I'm in a d-damn wheelch-chair, but-t I am fine, for Ch-christ's sake."

"I know that. I just need a place to stay for the week or so."

"You are a t-terrible liar, W-Wilson."

But Wilson persisted, "I need a place to stay, House. Come on, please? Just a few days."

"Fuck-k off, W-Wilson." House threw down his fork, and wheeled himself into his room, his plate of pasta not even half-eaten. The insult, with the stammer, didn't bear that much weight, and he hated that.

Cuddy watched House wheel himself away; his shoulders hunched as he furiously worked the wheels of his chair to escape from the table. He slammed the door, hard.

"I take that as a yes," stated Wilson matter-of-factly.

Cuddy reached across the table to take Wilson's hand. "You're a good friend, Wilson. But yeah, you're a terrible liar."

* * *

><p>Wilson came home from work one day to find House in front of the bookshelf, stretching to grab a book out of his reach, missing it by a few inches. Wilson simply reached out to grab it, passed the book to House and was rewarded with a death glare.<p>

House couldn't reach the shelf on which he usually placed his cup and other cutlery, and Wilson began leaving them on the counter within easy reach for House. The same went for House's clothes and other necessities.

"Why haven't you been playing the piano recently?"

House abruptly stopped eating and put his hands down on his lap. He unconsciously shifted his head to gaze at his piano, and began tapping imaginary tunes on his lap.

"Sounds weird," he finally mumbled. As he turned away from the piano and back to his plate, Wilson could see a look of longing hidden in House's eyes. _Of course_, thought Wilson. No pedals. House wouldn't settle for less than perfect when it came to his music. And he cursed at himself for reminding House of his lack of ability to press the pedals.

Shower times were tricky. House had to use a shower chair, and for the first few times, had difficulty transferring from one chair to the other. They developed an unspoken agreement that House would leave the door to the bathroom unlocked in case he fell. Once, Wilson was watching television when he heard a resounding crash from the bathroom. He leapt to his feet and knocked on the door. "House? Everything okay?"

"F-fuck."

Wilson heard the sound of the chair crashing against the wall, presumably due to House shoving it away in anger.

"I'm coming in."

Wilson opened the door and saw House sprawled on his side on the bathroom floor, dressed in only his boxers. He had obviously fallen in the transfer from the wheelchair to the shower chair. Wilson brought the shower chair over from where it had been shoved against the wall in anger, and silently helped House get onto the chair. He left the bathroom when House was seated in the chair, choosing to ignore how House was rigid and trembling slightly from the humiliation and helplessness.

Of course, it was only a matter of time before the inevitable blow-up happened.

* * *

><p>Cuddy came over on Friday evening. She had been coming over almost every day after work for dinner before heading home. Usually, she was greeted by a sullen House and a determined-to-act-like-everything-is-normal Wilson, but today was different. From outside the door, she could hear House's frustrated voice.<p>

"F-fuck off W-Wilson! I d-don't need-d your help-p!"

Cuddy pushed open the door, which was ajar, and saw House struggling to get up from the floor using the couch. Wilson was trying to help House back into the wheelchair, his arms around under House's armpits, only to have House push Wilson away repeatedly.

"What happened?"

"He fell out of the chair trying to reach for his book. Fell behind the table, the space is too narrow for him to wheel in."

"I c-can d-do it m-myself!" House's stutter always got worse when he was agitated. He finally managed to hoist himself into the wheelchair; ignoring how much weight he had had to put on Wilson.

He felt the emotions that had been building up in him start to overflow like a dam that had reached its full capacity. He took a deep breath, and unleashed them.

"I d-don't need-d your help-p! Or your h-hov-v-vering! I alread-d-dy know I c-can't d-do a lot-t of things by myself-f! I am not-t a charit-ty case f-for you t-to fawn ov-v-ver so that-t you c-can… I don't-t know, fulfil your need-d to h-help!"

He propelled himself out the door of the apartment at breakneck speed. Cuddy and Wilson ran after him, futilely calling after him. They watched as House grabbed a bucket of paint from outside the newly-painted apartment two doors down and wheel himself out of the lobby and into the cool autumn evening.

They watched as he locked his wheelchair into position and they watched in horror as he flung the black paint over his Honda Repsol. He placed both hands on the side of the bike, ignoring the black paint that stained and flowed over his hands, and with a mighty shove and yell of frustration, tipped his precious bike over. It hit the ground with a resounding crash, and Cuddy swore she saw the bike actually bounce.

"House what the hell are you doing – OW!"

House spun his wheelchair around and promptly rolled over Wilson's foot in his haste to get back inside the house. Cuddy watched as House propelled himself up the ramp, arms pumping furiously like pistons, and into the building like a whirlwind on wheels. He was biting his lip in determination, eyes ablaze in fury.

Cuddy ran after House while Wilson hopped-limped alongside her. They arrived at his apartment door, only to realize that House had locked them out of the apartment.

"House, open up!" Cuddy pounded the door as Wilson scrabbled for the spare key that was hidden on the doorframe. She felt her heart thudding hard in her ribcage – no one knew what House could do when he was determined and in a rage.

After far too long a time, they managed to get the door open, and they were greeted with absolute chaos. House had swept everything onto the floor of the apartment in a rage – broken glass, books and papers littered the ground. House emerged out of his room with his cane in his lap, mouth tight with resentment and bitterness. He yanked himself over to the hall closet, flinging the door open. He reached in, and emerged with his arms full of all the canes he had accumulated over the years.

"I d-don't need-d my d-damn canes anym-more!" He threw them at the floor between him and Cuddy and Wilson, and they clattered to the ground, a cacophony of wood and metal. He dived back in and yanked out with him his tennis rackets, squash rackets and golf clubs, and finally, his prized lacrosse stick.

"And-d I d-definitely…" His voice cracked as his rage died down to despair. "I won't-t ever-t g-get-t t-to use these a-g-gain!" He flung them all towards Cuddy and Wilson, who stood in the middle of the living room, shell-shocked at the turmoil before them.

Cuddy's heart broke at the sight of House revealing his innermost feelings of helplessness and despair - hearing his voice crack as he confronted his greatest fears was heartbreaking. She never knew that House had kept all his sports equipment – that he had been hanging on to some small hope that perhaps one day, some kind of experimental medicine or procedure would give him back full use of his legs and enable him to go back to the pre-infarction period. She felt the tears well up in her eyes.

"House…" Her voice was thick with emotion.

But it was as if he couldn't hear her, and all the pent-up emotions of the past few months were spilling out of him.

"And-d guess what-t? I don't-t need-d Vi-vi-codin anymore!"

He spat out the words he knew Cuddy and Wilson would have loved to hear at many points over the past decade, and he threw his bottles of Vicodin onto the ground. The little white pills that had caused so much conflict between the three of them over the years scattered to the ground, and the empty bottles rolled everywhere. He rolled over to his bookcase and used the cane in his hands to sweep down everything on the top shelf. Along with the books came _the_ box of morphine. He opened the box with trembling hands, breath hitching, and emptied its contents onto the floor.

"And you d-don't-t ev-ver have to w-worry about-t me over-d-dosing or a-b-busing morphine anymore!"

A tear trickled down House's cheek and disappeared into his scruff. "Be-c-cause I d-don't f-feel it any-m-more. All th-this time I've b-been trying-g to escape th-the p-pain and-d I f-finally g-got what-t I want-t." He took a deep breath, tried to prevent the sob that threatened to escape from him. "But now… I… I d-don't f-feel a single f-fucking th-thing here."

As if to demonstrate his point, he hit himself on the legs with the cane with a resounding "thwack", and as if he finally, _finally_ got hit by the magnitude of it all after all these months - the lack of pain, the lack of feeling - he laughed bitterly and looked up at them with his blue eyes, which were brimming with despair.

"Wh-why d-do the t-two of y-you c-care so m-much now? Is it b-because I f-finally am what-t you want-ted-d me to b-be all th-these years – d-d-drug free? Or is it-t b-because I am d-disabled and-d you p-pity me?

Wilson opened his mouth, but House continued on. Weeks, months, and years of suppressed feelings were poured forth.

"Is that-t why you're here, C-Cuddy? After w-weeks of a-avoiding-g m-me w-when we b-broke up? Or is it-t j-just because I s-saved th-the m-most import-tant p-person in-n y-your life? G-guilt? G-gratitude?" His voice came out small and uncertain, as if he was pleading.

At that, Cuddy's heart shattered into a million pieces for the man she had loved for twenty years. She was heartbroken at the fact that he thought she was here for him only out of guilt and gratitude, and at the fact that he thought she and Wilson were here for him only because he had finally broken free of his drug addiction. She knew why – so many times they had given up on him and left him alone because they were fed up with his drug habits and self-destructive tendencies. But here they were now, so unconditionally for him that he couldn't accept it. House was no doubt a brilliant man, but stunted emotionally. He simply couldn't fathom the abstract concept of love and friendship. He simply was not used to these intangible things, even from his best friend and lover. He thought they were here for him only out of guilt and because he was no longer a drug addict, and because they pitied him.

She took a tentative step forward towards House, her tears spilling out of her eyes. He turned his head away in shame at his outburst, and looked away from both her and Wilson. She made her way across the sea of pills, canes, sports equipment and empty bottles - all that signified his pain and his failings - that lay between them on the floor.

She knelt in front of him and caressed his cheek; using her thumbs to wipe away the tear tracks down his face. He pulled away from her, but she didn't let him.

"Don't say that, House. That's not true." She murmured to the broken man in front of her. She felt his harsh breaths on her face as she gently tilted his head back up, forcing him to look into her own blue-grey eyes. She saw the intense sadness permeating every inch of his expressive eyes.

"We're here because we love you. _I love you_. Not because of pity. Because we're your friends, and we care," she gently told him, "I'm grateful you saved Rachel, guilty that the accident happened, but that's not what brings me here each time. I'm here for the man who was willing to give his life for my daughter."

Wilson joined them, and he stood behind House, placing his hand on House's heaving shoulders. "Please don't think you don't deserve us being here for you, or that you don't need us. We're not leaving you alone," he quietly said.

At their words, House began to cry in earnest, finally giving in to the despair, bitterness, fear, and self-doubt that he had buried deep within, but which had plagued him for all this time. Cuddy pulled him into her embrace, guiding his head onto her shoulder while Wilson tightened his grip around House's shoulder. They glanced at each other, well aware that they too, had tears streaming down their faces for their best friend who after so many weeks of avoidance and keeping up a strong front, had finally crumbled.

They stood there together, a huddled entity, just the three of them in the midst of the chaos, for an indeterminable amount of time. As House's jagged sobs began to taper away and he began to calm down, Cuddy pulled away and whispered, "Let's get you to bed." There was no lewd comment from House about her wanting to get his pants off, proof of his emotional exhaustion and that they had been, and might even still be slowly losing their friend. He only mutely nodded.

Wilson wheeled House into his bedroom. Seeing House as limp as a rag, physically spent from his earlier outburst, he lifted House onto the bed. There was no protest or glare from House, who simply turned on his side away from them and burrowed his face into his pillow, body trembling from aftershocks of his outburst. Wilson lifted the blankets and covered House with them while Cuddy wiped the sweat off his brow with a towel, and cleaned his hands of the black paint.

"Rest well, House." She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple, her lips barely a breath away from him as she murmured goodnight.

As she turned to leave, House grabbed her wrist, and clung on like a drowning man desperately to a lifeline.

"Stay."

Cuddy turned around.

"Just till I fall asleep… Please."

She squeezed his hand and got in under the covers with him, facing him. Seeing the apprehension and vulnerability on his face, she wiggled closer to him, and placed her arm over him, and pulled him towards her, holding him there, calming him. Their fingers intertwined, and she traced her thumb over his hand, lulling him to sleep.

Just as she thought he was asleep, she heard his voice, a ragged whisper in the dark. "D-did you m-mean what-t you said-d? T-that y-you love me?"

"No matter what, I always have," she breathed. She felt him relax into her, and she tightened her arms around him as he drifted off into sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

Wilson watched as the piano movers moved House's piano out the front door. He felt obliged to watch their every move like a hawk on behalf of House, who was still in his room. Who still hadn't touched his piano despite it having been a month.

Today was the day Gregory House would say goodbye to 221B, his sanctuary for the past decade.

It was simply too small for anyone in a wheelchair. Two weeks of witnessing House trying to maneuver around the small apartment, Wilson had finally had enough, and garnered the courage to ask House to move back in with him. He had expected, or even hoped for, a vehement protest, or insults and curses thrown at him, or pure rage, but all he got was a terse nod and House wheeling away from him in silence and back into his room.

House spent a lot of time in his room now. He still hadn't gone back to work, despite cajoling and persuasion from both Cuddy and Wilson.

Wilson looked around the apartment, which was now devoid of the numerous trinkets and objects that used to fill this space, marking it as House's territory. It was devoid of the medical texts and obscure books that used to grace the oak shelves of the bookcase. A layer of dust marked the spot where the piano had stood all this time. The hallway closet no longer contained the dozens of pairs of Nikes. The sports equipment House had hidden, the numerous canes he had collected over the years and the Vicodin bottles that were hidden all over the apartment in various nooks and crannies had all been disposed of.

Wilson walked over to House's bedroom and stood at the door. The older man was staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts. Even now, despite the months that had gone by since the accident, House was still too thin and pale. His face was no longer drawn with lines of pain, but a weariness and sadness hung around him like a heavy cloak, dulling the energy and fire that used to radiate off House.

Wilson cleared his throat, "Ready to go?"

House turned to look at him, an inscrutable look on his face.

"Yeah."

He reached over his wheelchair arms to grab the big box that contained his possessions off the floor and place it onto his lap. He never used to be able to do that, not with his damaged thigh. He wheeled himself out of the room where he had spent so many sleepless nights, some due to a particularly puzzling case, some due to his leg giving him hell. The room where he had first made love with Cuddy after the crane collapse, where she had placed the gentlest of kisses in the crater that marked his thigh.

He wheeled himself through the apartment, savoring the smell of old wood and home for the last time. But it wasn't his home anymore, not with all his belongings gone.

It was a shell now. Just like he was too.

* * *

><p>House entered the spare room in the loft, now officially his bedroom. He was no longer a guest, like he always had been in the loft previously. It was his home now.<p>

Wilson had evidently gone all out to make the loft more comfortable for House, shifting pieces of furniture around to create more space, and adding in several of House's own items, such as his piano and his vintage autopsy table. Handles had been installed in the bathroom. He had purchased a new, lower bed frame that would make transfers from wheelchair to bed easier, and had replaced the old mattress with House's own.

House smiled slightly as his best friend's conscientiousness and care. It got annoying most of the time, but this time, he appreciated it.

He transferred himself off the wheelchair and onto the bed. He buried his head in his pillows, taking comfort in the familiar while trying to ignore the undeniable fact that all around him, everything was different.

* * *

><p>Cuddy, with her arms full of Chinese food, pushed open the loft door and saw an exhausted Wilson sprawled on the couch.<p>

"Where is he?" she asked as she sat down on the couch next to him.

"He shut himself in the room again."

Cuddy bit her lip. Ever since that fateful night where he had let all his feelings out, he had become reticent and withdrew into himself again. Even the prospect of getting back to solving puzzles couldn't convince him to get back to work. She knew the intensely private and proud man didn't want to face his co-workers with his glaring new disabilities, not when they would scrutinize him and pity him. The limp could be overlooked or forgotten when he was seated or when he was throwing insults and comments all over the place. But the wheelchair and the stammer could never entirely be ignored or forgotten.

Her confession that she still loved him had not changed things for the better. It was almost as if she had never said it. House had chosen to ignore what happened that night, running away yet again. But that night, as she pulled House's trembling body closer to hers, it had felt _right_. It felt right being there for the man she had pushed away and left, and it wasn't because he was finally able to conform to her expectations now that he was without the Vicodin. And as he melted into her embrace, she was sure he still loved her too. But where would things go from here?

"I'll go get him."

House was lying on his side in the bed. He wished he were asleep. When he was awake and immobile in bed, his thoughts would inevitably wander to his useless legs, and he would try and try again to try feel them, to move them. He tried to push those thoughts out of his mind, but there were no puzzles to occupy his mind. He never noticed how much he used to fidget, always moving and flexing his legs and feet or hands rubbing at his thighs. Now each urge to move and habit to rub was useless, and was only painful reminder. It was moments like this that he felt his eyes burn and his chest hurt.

He didn't hear Cuddy enter the room, but felt the bed move as she sat down next to him. He closed his eyes quickly.

"I know you're awake." She placed her hand on his shoulder.

House grimaced and opened his eyes to look at her. She was beautiful, as always.

"I am n-now," he grumbled.

"Bought your favourite Chinese for dinner. Now get up or Wilson will finish it all."

"W-wilson won't. H-he's t-trying too d-desperately t-to g-get me to eat-t m-more."

"Yeah well that's because you've lost a lot of weight." Cuddy frowned. "Come on, let's go."

"Not-t hungry."

"You still have to eat. Dinner. _Now_."

House rolled his eyes and gave a sigh. Seeing him begin to get up, Cuddy began to retreat out of the room to give him the space he now always needed.

* * *

><p>House put his chopsticks down and retreated away from the table and back into the room again. He ate barely half of his food. Wilson and Cuddy exchanged glances with each other. Dinner didn't go well.<p>

"I shouldn't have asked him when he was going back to work," Cuddy sighed.

"No, he _needs_ to go back to work. Without his puzzles all his mind is fixated on is how he's in a wheelchair now." Wilson placed his head in his hands. "I know he's terrified of going back to the hospital. He hates the pity and the scrutiny."

"How are we going to get him to go back?"

"We just have to give him time, I guess."

"It's been over a month since he was discharged, Wilson. He's not been eating well, he's shutting himself away from the world, he would rather not talk than comment on my breasts and your caring. He's not House anymore! He's _depressed_."

"You want him to see a therapist? Good luck with that."

"I know that. I just don't know whether there's anything else we can do."

A silence fell over the table as House's two best friends pushed their food around, thinking of what they could do.

"Actually… Cuddy," Wilson hesitated. "Perhaps you could bring Rachel over more often. You know how he feels about her… There's something special between them."

Cuddy smiled slightly at the memories she had of Rachel and House together. It was a good idea. "Yeah. That could work. I'll bring her over tomorrow."

* * *

><p>"Cuddy's bringing Rachel over later for dinner later."<p>

Wilson and House sat together in front of the TV, eating macadamia nut pancakes for lunch. Wilson had been cooking House's favourite foods more frequently to hopefully get him to eat more.

House sighed and put his half-eaten pancakes down on the table.

"St-stop t-trying to g-get us b-back t-together, Wilson. We b-broke up. T-that's it."

Wilson picked the plate up and shoved it back into House's hands. "Well judging from what happened that night, you both still have feelings for each other."

As soon as those words came out of his mouth, Wilson regretted it. What happened that night was never _ever_ mentioned.

House shot Wilson a glare, eyes blazing and his lips set together in a thin line. Wilson sighed. "Go back to work, House. Get back to your life."

"Sh-shut up, W-wilson. St-stop medd-dling."

But Wilson persisted. It was high time some sense was knocked into House. "You have to get over it, House. You have a job to get back to. Nothing else is different!"

"Oh r-really, W-wilson? W-what about-t the f-fact th-that I am a p-para-p-plegic or h-how I h-have th-this st-t-tutter?"

"Stop it, House. Stop wallowing in your own misery. You – "

"You're n-not th-the one in a wheel-ch-chair."

"Plenty of people in wheelchairs get on with their lives!"

"Fuck you, Wilson." House spat as he started wheeling himself away.

Wilson yelled at House's retreating figure. "You're not in any pain anymore, House! And you can't deal with that! You don't know how _not_ to be miserable!"

The only answer he got was a resounding slam of the door.

House wheeled himself into the room angrily. But as he sat in the silence of the room, he found himself thinking. Wilson's words had struck a chord in him. He felt the anger dissipate out of him, and desolation replaced it.

Unconsciously, his hands went to his right thigh, and he felt the jagged scar that lay hidden beneath his pants. He knew every dip, every curve and every protrusion in the rocky landscape where his quadriceps should be from years of rubbing and trying to calm the spasms that would wreck his thigh so regularly. Now, there was no more cramping, no more spasms, no more nerve pain. It felt almost foreign to feel his thigh under his hands without the pain that usually necessitated drugs and distractions. Who was he without his pain? It had defined him for the past decade, and now without it, he didn't know who he was anymore. And that scared him more than anything.

* * *

><p>"Uncle Jimmy!" A squeal rang through the loft as Wilson opened the door.<p>

"Hi Rachel." Wilson bent down and scooped Rachel up into his arms with a huge grin. Rachel immediately smacked a loud and wet kiss on her favourite uncle's cheek. "What's that you're holding?"

"Cookies! I share with Hows." Rachel peered around Wilson, wriggling excitedly.

Wondering how the hell House managed to charm and build such a precious relationship with Rachel (and vice versa), Wilson set Rachel down onto the floor and said, "In his room. He's been in there an awful lot. Why don't you go bring him out?" _Might as well kill two birds with one stone_, thought Wilson.

Cuddy's lips twitched as she recognized Wilson's subtle hint.

Rachel immediately scampered off towards the rooms at the back of the loft, peering excitedly in each door to locate House.

"Hows?" Rachel peeked in the door. There was no reply.

House was leaning against the headboard, snoring lightly as he dozed, a medical journal across his lap and glasses askew.

She tiptoed over, and tugged on House's left arm, which was dangling over the edge of the bed. House snorted at the movement, stirring, and blearily opened his eyes.

"What." His voice was rough with sleep, but when he saw the little girl in front of him, his gaze softened.

"Hi." Rachel smiled shyly at him, her big eyes peering up at the tall man on the bed.

"Hi."

"Cookie?" Rachel whipped out the box she had been hiding behind her back, proudly showing it to House. "I help Marina make!"

"P-pirate _and_ b-baker? Are you sure? I d-don't want to eat r-rocks."

"Hows!" Rachel sounded remarkably like her mother. She pouted, her bottom lip protruding slightly to give that pout which melted the stoniest of hearts. Even House's. "Yummy. That's why I must share with you."

"Hmmm… Alright-t. G-get up here."

"Mommy says no eating on the bed!" Rachel's arms immediately went onto her hips as she tried to stare House down with her most fearsome look.

_Christ. A mini-Cuddy_, thought House. He rolled his eyes. "W-well this is _my_ b-bed. And I w-won't tell your m-mommy."

A mini Mexican stand-off between the three year old and the fifty one year old ensued, like so many times before when they would fight for the remote, or that particular corner of the couch, or for that particular spot next to Cuddy. Sometimes he won, sometimes she won. This time though, the older man won. "Are you g-getting up h-here or not?"

Rachel clambered up on the bed with House's help and made herself comfortable next to him. She placed her head on the pillow next to him, and snuggled into the nape of his neck. She rubbed her cheek against his stubble, her customary greeting.

House, with his chin on her head, breathed in the clean scent of Rachel, that heady mix of baby powder, soap and childhood innocence. He found himself more relaxed than he had been for the past week, now that he was in the presence of the little girl he had somehow come to love and cherish. As he looked at her, unscathed from the accident with the exception of the long scar on her arm, he didn't feel angry or resentful of the little girl who had made him bring her out to play on that fateful day. All he felt was relief that she was safe and sound.

"You still sad Hows?"

House found himself admitting the truth to the earnest little girl who so often managed to find a way into the deepest recesses of his heart. "Yes," he admitted quietly, "I feel sad-d."

Rachel cocked her head and looked up at him, studying him. She patted his cheek gently, and smiled earnestly, "My cookies make you feel happier. Okay?"

"Okay."

House was never one to appreciate such sweet snacks or gestures, but coming from this particular three year old, the cookie felt like a much-needed homemade remedy, much like the chicken soup mothers made for their ill children. And he would never say it out loud, but he did feel slightly better after eating it_. For God's sake, I'm getting soft. _

Rachel reached in the box for another cookie and House's arm immediately shot out to stop her. "Just one. W-wilson's m-making dinner."

"Okay."

No tantrums, no arguing (yet). She somehow trusted him and listened to him. Despite it having been so many months, House still found himself continually in wonder at the dynamics of their relationship. It was like no other he had ever experienced.

"Dinner's done! Rachel, get House out here!" Wilson's yell interrupted the peace and quiet in which House and Rachel sat. When they were together, they didn't always talk. Sometimes, they just sat in comfortable silence, enjoying each other's presence.

Rachel bolted upright. "Let's go!"

House hesitated. Send her out first or let her watch him struggle and potentially have to answer _the_ question?

Rachel answered that question for him by jumping off the bed and nudging the wheelchair closer to him. He reached out and adjusted the wheelchair, making it parallel to the bed. "Thank you," he said quietly.

House, using his arms and elbows, pushed himself upright. Grabbing his legs above his knees, he shifted himself closer to the edge of the bed little by little. Once he was at the edge of the bed, he lifted his torso into the wheelchair, and then with his right arm hooked under his legs, lifted his legs off the bed and onto the footrests of the chair.

All the while, Rachel stood next to the wheelchair, watching him. And seemingly guarding the wheelchair, making sure it wouldn't move. As he settled into the wheelchair, she grinned at him and clapped her hands.

"You strong, Hows."

There was no pity, no awkward questions. Just what seemed like pride.

House nodded minutely. Before he knew it, the words slipped out of his mouth.

"You w-want a ride?"

Rachel's mouth dropped open and she stared at him wide-eyed. "Can I?"

"Why not?"

"I never ride in chair before."

"There's always a f-first t-time."

Rachel lifted her arms, and House scooped the tiny girl up, and settled her onto his lap. He couldn't feel it, so he asked, "Comfy?"

She nodded eagerly.

"You g-gotta hold on h-here," he said as he gestured to the armrest. "I can't f-feel it if you're slip-p-ping off so you h-have to t-tell me." He could probably see and feel it if she did start slipping off, but he was not taking any chances.

And so the mismatched pair emerged out of the room together in the chair. Wilson and Cuddy watched as the little girl engaged House in an animated conversation as he wheeled them both out. A rare slight smile graced House's face, and his stutter was noticeably better as per when he was more relaxed. It was_ always_ better with Rachel.

Cuddy glanced at Wilson. _Good idea_.

Wilson whispered back at her, "This is the most relaxed I've seen him in weeks."

"Stop whispering b-ehind my b-back, Wilson."

Wilson only looked innocently at House. "Chicken?" he offered with a flourish of his hands and a slight bow.

Wilson's chicken and potatoes were scrumptious, and they all tucked in with gusto. House ate more than usual, but it still wasn't much. As he put his fork down, Rachel frowned at him. There was still a whole chunk of chicken and a pile of potatoes.

"Eat more Hows! Naughty to leave so much!" She demanded. Cuddy and Wilson tried unsuccessfully to stifle their laughter.

_Goodness_, thought Wilson. _She's good._

House rolled his eyes at the little girl who spoke with so much authority. "Make me."

"No cookie for you later then!"

"Christ-t, Cuddy. What m-monster have you r-raised?" House muttered under his breath. Cuddy smirked and shrugged her shoulders. She was enjoying this way too much to interrupt.

"Hows! Eat!" Rachel stuck her chin out and pointed to his plate, her mouth set in a determined line.

Knowing there was no way out, House reluctantly picked up his fork and began eating again, shooting dirty looks at Wilson and Cuddy, who were enjoying this far too much at his expense. Wilson winked, and flashed a quick thumbs-up at Rachel.


	12. Chapter 12

**Thank you everyone for your support and reviews.**

* * *

><p>"No! No no no! Are you an idiot? Did I not ask you to give her the <em>steroids<em>? Or, please do enlighten me, do _antibiotics_ sound anything like _steroids_?" House berated over the phone, gesturing wildly in the air in exasperation. "Give her the _steroooooooids._" He dragged last word out slowly and deliberately, half-mocking, half-exasperated at his team.

Wilson smirked as he simultaneously watched the game on TV and eavesdropped on House's conversation. It seemed like things were slowly but surely getting back to normal. House had begun taking consults and conducting differentials again, though he had adamantly deflected whenever it was suggested he go back to the hospital. It would take time.

After the infarction, House had fallen in a downward spiral that lasted nearly three years before finally climbing back up with Wilson's help. Wilson had been there through the breakthrough pain where House could only clutch his thigh in pure agony with no respite from the unrelenting pain, the rage and tears after Stacy had left. He had been there, bringing House to and fro the hospital for dialysis, TPN and therapy. It had been a long three years before House could pull himself together after having lost everything – his girlfriend, his mobility, his athleticism, part of his leg, his _wholeness_ – to go back to PPTH to head the Diagnostics Department.

House had never entirely gotten over his disability. He hated the pity and the stares that came with it. People thought it was such a pity that he, the word-renowned diagnostician had a disability. Wilson could understand their sentiments though. It seemed so unfair for House, who had everything going for him, to be afflicted with chronic pain and a disability for the rest of his life thanks to a one-in-a-million infarction and the betrayal of his girlfriend.

Wilson could only imagine the emotional turmoil and inner demons House was battling now in this situation. He hadn't stepped out of the house at all, unwilling to face the world and the curious stares that would no doubt come. Wilson had always suspected that House sought not only physical relief from the Vicodin, but also emotional numbness. But now there was no longer any excuse to turn back to the Vicodin.

Wilson couldn't bear to see him falling back into those dark times again. Now, there were two other people standing together with him. Sure, he was always rationalizing with and for House, and trying to knock sense into him, but Wilson would never be able to help House out emotionally, not as well as Cuddy and Rachel.

There were now three people safeguarding the fragile heart of Gregory House, and Wilson was sure that House would be able to bounce back up again.

Soon.

* * *

><p>"House? I'm home."<p>

"W'lsonnnnnnnnnnn!" House bellowed.

Wilson hurried in to the loft, and was dismayed at the sight that greeted him. House was sprawled on the couch, an empty bottle of scotch set on the table. Wilson sighed. He thought he had stowed all the alcohol away on the higher shelves and cupboards. Apparently not. He was hoping House wouldn't have to turn to alcohol, and he hadn't, right up till today. House's road to recovery was a series of ups and downs, tentative steps forward and retreats backwards.

Wilson sank onto the couch next to his drunken best friend. "Why are you plastered?"

House could barely focus on Wilson, his eyes glazed over. "Life is fucking unfair," he proclaimed as he tried to curl up into the couch.

"What?"

"I love being miserable, W'lson." House slurred, "Just like what you… said."

He made a grab for the bottle on the table haphazardly, knocking the pile of magazines over. Wilson swiped the bottle away.

"Gimme."

"No."

"_Gimme._"

"No."

"I want it."

"You can't always get what you want."

"Don't steal Jagger's line, W'lson. Not good. I neeeeeeed it."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "You're gonna regret it tomorrow when you get the mother of all migraines."

There was a pause as House tried to process Wilson's words through the haze of alcohol, and failed to. He heaved a dramatic sigh.

"I got a letter today." House waved an envelope in the air in front of Wilson, arms heavy and flopping back down. "I got lotsa money now… But dinner's still on… you." He suddenly clutched the letter to his chest, and laughed drunkenly. "Not sharing with you. I earned this."

"Okay…" Wilson breathed as he folded his arms. He had no idea what House was talking about.

"Money can't… solve everything. But money is good!"

"Uh-huh."

House's drunken laughter stopped abruptly, and he hiccupped.

"Money… Legs… Money… Legs… I think I choose legs."

That was all he mumbled drowsily before he closed his eyes.

Wilson wondered what had caused this episode. It was just yesterday that House was berating his team over the phone. House had grudgingly agreed to lay off the alcohol after the accident, knowing that it was a trigger for the migraines that now plagued him occasionally.

He caught sight of the envelope that House clutched to his chest. Wilson tugged it out of House's death grip.

It was a cheque for several tens of thousands, as well as a formal letter of apology from the wealthy drunk driver, as decreed by the judge.

"Oh House…" Wilson found himself unable to feel angry or exasperated at House's intoxication, not when he now knew what had driven him to seek solace in the bottle.

The driver had escaped unscathed thanks to his rock-solid SUV, while House, in the crumpled sedan, had been in a coma for weeks and lost the use of the legs. Months of healing and recuperation had done nothing to dull the stinging reality of what had been lost, the raw wound harshly reopened again with the painful reminder that was the letter.

Wilson said nothing as he helped House back to bed, trying desperately to ignore the despondent look in his best friend's eyes after the high and numbness from the alcohol had worn off.

House blearily opened his eyes as Wilson deposited him on the bed. The alcohol gave him the bravery to bare his emotions to Wilson, to say what he had kept to himself for so long, to mourn the loss of something so common and easy for any other person on the street.

"I liked to walk," he whispered.

* * *

><p>"Oh crap, Cuddy! I totally forgot to tell you not to bring Rachel over today."<p>

Cuddy stood at the door, Rachel bouncing up and down next to her. She frowned. "What's wrong?"

Wilson gestured for her to come in. House was nowhere to be seen. Wilson shoved the letter and cheque at her. "He got totally plastered yesterday when this came."

Cuddy looked over the contents, and winced.

"He's in bed, suffering through the biggest migraine of his life." Wilson flopped back onto the couch bonelessly, hand going up to rifle Rachel's hair. "Sorry Rachel, House can't play with you today. He's not feeling well."

Rachel nodded solemnly. Cuddy glanced at Wilson, who looked absolutely exhausted as his eyes began to droop. "Catch a nap, Wilson. I'll go check on him. Rachel? Take care of Uncle Jimmy alright?" Rachel immediately scooted over next to Wilson, and snuggled into his squishy abdomen. Retrieving the remote control, Cuddy turned on the cartoons to entertain Rachel, making sure to keep the volume low.

Cuddy cracked open the door to House's room, and the door creaked loudly. Almost immediately, she could hear House groan and begin to retch with the slight sound becoming sensory overload. The room was dark, with only the slightest light provided by the crack under the door. The retching stopped, and House moaned.

Cuddy tiptoed over to the bed, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she felt House's forehead. It was cold and clammy, and he was trembling slightly as his eyes were screwed tight shut.

Keeping her voice low and soothing, she whispered, "House?"

A grunt was the only response. This was a really bad one, then.

Cuddy retrieved towels and cool water in a basin, and sat down next to House. She placed a cool towel on his forehead, and wiped the sweat off his brow and face. She smiled as he almost imperceptibly leaned into her touch. "You are such a big baby," she teased under her breath. House snorted and seemed about to retort, but he immediately tensed as it heightened the pounding in his head.

Watching House suffer from the lingering aftereffects of the accident that had happened months ago was painful to say the least. Each time Cuddy saw House, she was reminded of what he had lost in order to keep her daughter safe. But she was sure it wasn't guilt that spurred her to remain by his side through all this time, despite how grateful she was for what he had done.

It only reminded her of how much love he was capable of inside once one looked past the sullen and prickly exterior he had put up for the so many years she had known him. In hindsight, it was the fear of losing her that had driven him back to the one pill that had caused her to break up with him. That was how much love he had for her, how afraid he was of losing her.

Cuddy never truly saw how much he had opened up to her, and how he really had given his whole heart to their relationship, and to Rachel, whom she thought he couldn't really care for. It had taken the accident to show her that Gregory House wasn't really a selfish coward who couldn't take pain. He was selfless; loyal to those he loved and trusted enough to build a relationship with. He had undergone deep brain stimulation for Wilson, his best friend, despite the risks it had, because he knew he had to try save Wilson's girlfriend. He had swerved the whole car and bore the brunt of the impact for Rachel, whom he knew Cuddy loved, and he loved. Beyond that rude and blunt jerk who had a tendency to insult and push people away was a man who loved his friends in his own unique way.

Her heart broke each time she saw him suffering. She knew how hard the blow must have been. He had suffered years of pain because of a stubborn refusal to amputate his legs, wanting to keep his mobility. And now he still had his legs, but had lost use of them totally. The irony was astoundingly painful, and she couldn't fault him for being unable to pull himself out of this slump he had fallen in.

Cuddy hated herself for needing something like the accident to realize the extent to which House was capable of loving. She hated herself for her own impossible standards and unwillingness to compromise when he had tried _so damn hard_.

She wanted the sharp and lively House back, but she knew that it would take time. Time was the only salve, with love and support helping only so much.

"Just rest," she whispered, as she rubbed his arm reassuringly. "I'm here."

She felt, rather than saw, him shift on the bed. His hand came up to cover hers. He squeezed it tight, holding onto her for dear life.


	13. Chapter 13

**We're coming to the end of the story, I'm sorry to say. Here's the penultimate chapter. **

**I can't believe there are over 150 reviews! Thank you everyone for your support and encouragement. They really mean a lot to me - this is after all, my first fanfic. **

**Hope you enjoy this chapter. **

* * *

><p>The phone rang in the middle of House's soap. He ignored it.<p>

"Hows? You there?" Rachel's tentative voice came drifting over the machine.

House immediately muted the television and reached for the phone. _I really am losing my touch. _

"Rachel?"

"Hi Hows!" Rachel squealed.

"What's up?"

"I at hospital. Marina sick so I with Uncle Jimmy in hospital."

"I see. So why are you c-calling me? Tell Wilson to stop fussing like a girl."

Rachel glanced up at Wilson, who sat next to her on the couch. He nodded and gestured for her to go on.

"I bored Hows. Uncle Jimmy boring."

"Yeah he is. But he's funny when you annoy him. Go annoy him."

"No! Boring. Can you go park with me? Pretty please?"

House hesitated. The last time they had tried to go to the park they had ended up in a car wreck. And he had barely gone anywhere out of the house since the accident.

"Hows?" Rachel's voice interrupted House's thoughts.

"Yeah. Put Wilson on the phone."

"Yeah House?" Wilson's voice sounded too innocent.

"Is this some ploy of yours? It b-better not be."

"Does it matter? And no, it isn't. Rachel has been a ball of energy the whole day. I knew I shouldn't have bought her the ice-cream." It was true, Wilson couldn't say no to the adorable girl, even when he knew he would regret the decision. But he crossed his fingers anyway. "Marina usually brings her to the park around this time. And I really need to get these budget reports done. Right, Rachel?"

"Please please please Hows!" chimed Rachel in the background. House could almost visualize her bouncing up and down on the couch in Wilson's office, her chin jutting up as it always did when she pleaded for something.

House sighed and ran a hand over his face. "I'm not going to take a cab."

* * *

><p>Rachel sat on the swing, legs dangling as House pushed her from time to time. A gentle breeze ruffled the leaves around them. Around them, children ran around in the park, chasing one another, feeding pigeons and filling the afternoon air with their laughter. Joggers with ears plugged into music pounded the path and worked up a sweat. House watched them silently, lost in his thoughts.<p>

"Hows?"

"Yeah."

"Why you staring?"

"I'm… imagining."

"Imagining what?"

"What it's like to walk and run."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

A silence lapsed as the girl and the man both looked intently at those around them.

"Hows?"

"Yeah."

"Why you no at hospital anymore?"

House paused before answering, "I'm not feeling well."

"You hurt?" Rachel slid off her swing and walked in front of him, placing her hands onto his lap as she earnestly looked up at him.

"No... But I –"

"Then you should go back to hospital. Mommy say you, Uncle Jimmy and her all save lives."

"Well technically your mom spends more time talking to donors and doing paperwork." House muttered. He cleared his throat. "Did Wilson make you ask me?"

"Ask what?"

Wilson didn't. He had merely wanted House to get out of the house, and spend more time with Rachel. It was observant little Rachel who had noticed that she could no longer run to House's office to look for him, as she didn't know the man Mommy called Dr Foreman in House's office.

House sighed. "Never mind."

Rachel flashed a grin at House, and ran off to the slide. House groaned. She really had too much energy. He wheeled himself closer to the playground, and watched as Rachel instantly made friends with the other kids there, scampering up and down. He kept a distance, preferring not to mix with the gaggle of mothers and nannies hanging around the playground watching their own children.

As he watched Rachel, House found himself contemplating an answer to her question. What would it be like for him to go back to work? Truth be told, he was starting to miss his puzzles and cases. And even working with – or brow-beating – his team. Taking consults over the phone had just reminded him of what he was missing.

But House was not oblivious to the fact that he had stepped on many toes in the hospital over the years. He used to not care. He could tower over them, berate them and fire at them his cutting insults and wit as he waved his cane threateningly. Or he could simply limp away. But now, those weapons he used to wield to keep everyone at bay, to avoid their pity, and to survive in the hospital, were all gone.

House did not know what to expect from his co-workers if he were to return to PPTH. And what would his patients think of him, their doctor, being in a wheelchair? Already he had to face patients who were stunned that their doctor had a disability (and didn't wear a labcoat).

Imagine having a _doctor_ in a _wheelchair_. He was more likely to be mistaken as a patient of the hospital. He grimaced at the thought.

His thoughts were interrupted as Rachel waved at him from the top of the platform. She was four feet above ground, but the small girl felt like she was on top of the world.

"Look at me Hows!"

House felt a smile tug at his lips, and nodded his head at her. No way he was going to wave like some enthusiastic mother.

House caught sight of a boy racing along the platform linking the slide and monkey bars, trying to escape from his friends as they played catch.

Before House could shout a warning, the boy unwittingly bumped into the still-waving girl, who stumbled forward and onto thin air. Unable to find anything to hold onto, Rachel fell from the platform and onto the ground. She was still for a moment, winded from the shock of the fall, but almost immediately, began crying.

"God dammit!" House immediately began to propel himself towards Rachel as fast as possible.

Suddenly, the wheelchair jerked to a halt, and House found himself unable to move forward no matter how hard he pushed.

He looked down.

A short curb, separating the playground from the brick pavement, was the small yet insurmountable wall between him and Rachel. He bumped the wheelchair against it several times, but the wheels refused to go up and over.

"Rachel? Are you okay?" House yelled. There was no reply, only the sound of furious sobbing, and House could see the little girl rubbing her eyes furiously as she wailed.

House cursed his disability and his inability to help her as he jerked the wheelchair forward as hard as he could again and again. He cursed the drunk driver. He cursed himself for being so goddamn useless.

Out of the blue, a figure rushed past him. Cuddy. She scooped Rachel up into her arms, soothing the hysterical child with her quiet words of comfort.

House watched as Cuddy checked Rachel once over. He watched as Rachel stopped crying, and began to look around for him. He could see her mouth his name and seek his comfort.

The shame and helplessness he felt overwhelmed him like a tidal wave crashing down as he realized that he couldn't, and didn't, do anything for Rachel. A small curb_, barely a few inches high,_ had prevented him from getting to her, when she could have been seriously hurt.

How many more times would things like these happen, and he would find himself powerless to help her, or Cuddy?

House began to propel himself away as fast as was possible. He pushed and pushed himself along, not knowing where he was going, ignoring the ache that started to burn in his arms. He _needed_ the physical exertion; he needed to escape from them, get rid of the burning feelings of shame and disgust at himself.

* * *

><p>She finally found him half an hour later, a solitary figure parked right by the lake.<p>

She sat down next to him at the park bench, and joined him in looking out at the tranquil lake. Rachel dozed in her lap. Cuddy absentmindedly stroked her hair, waiting for House to talk.

"Is she alright?" His voice was flat.

Cuddy turned to look at him, but he stared ahead at the lake, gaze unwavering. She could see the storm in his eyes, the emotions rolling and thundering in him. He felt like a small ship trapped in a storm, having lost all sense of control after what mattered so much to him had been taken away. He was a drowning man, so desperate to fight against the current, to not get swept away.

"A little stunned, but she's okay," she hesitated, "Are you?"

He didn't answer, only nodding once. He was so tense; she could see the muscles in his jaw twitch slightly.

Her gaze fell to his hands, which had several nasty looking abrasions.

"House! Your hands! That's not okay."

"I'm fine."

Ignoring him, Cuddy searched her bag for the small bottle of water she always carried around. She gently reached over and took his hands.

"_I'm fine_." He tried to jerk his hand away but she held on tight to it.

"Just rinse it."

He turned to look at her, and saw the obstinate jut of her chin and the determined look in her eyes. He knew that look – there was really no way of escaping her when she had that face on. He exhaled, and relented.

He watched as she tended to his hand, pouring the water over the abrasions and gently cleaning them with the Kleenex.

He couldn't take his eyes off her, couldn't believe how good it felt to have her touch ghosting over his skin when it was at this moment that he never felt more alone, more helpless than he'd ever been in this world.

He withdrew his hands abruptly and turned back to face the lake.

"Go home, Cuddy."

Cuddy could almost_ see_ his walls draw up and him retreating into his shell again.

"I'll sit here with you."

"Just _leave_."

"I'm not leaving you." A moment's hesitation. "Not again."

His gaze flickered towards her, betraying a slight surprise. She simply sat quietly next to him, and waited for him to speak. Her phone buzzed in her purse, but she didn't answer it. He heard the vibration.

"Aren't you going to answer that?"

"Nope."

Another pause.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I'm just sitting here next to you, House. Waiting for you."

They both understood the true meaning behind that. A silence lapsed, only interrupted by the chirping of the birds around them.

His voice was a hoarse whisper. "I can't be with you, Cuddy."

Cuddy felt like she'd been socked in the gut. Hearing those words out of his mouth… it felt painful. Was this how he felt when she had said goodbye to him that day? The emotional part of her wanted to burst into tears. But the rational part of her, the part that had been dealing with House for years, knew better. She knew there was something more behind it.

"Why not?"

"Because," he mumbled, "I can't give you what you need." He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "I can't be the man that you need."

She reached over for his hand, and gripped it; trying to show him, make him feel that he was.

"You are."

The warmth of her hands felt so good, so comforting, like it was where his hands truly belonged. But he took her hand, and slowly removed it from his.

"I can't. This is me telling you that it's not going to work out. Like I did before our entire mess of a relationship. I told you the day after that it wasn't going to work. And look where we ended up. It didn't work. _I can't_, Cuddy."

"Why can't we try again?"

"Now you say we can start over again because I no longer need Vicodin." It wasn't a question. It was a matter-of-fact statement.

Cuddy had no idea how to get through to him. She wanted him back. She had been terrified at that moment when she realized he had taken Vicodin. She had been terrified that it had been a full-blown relapse, and she didn't know if she could handle it.

"It was a mistake, House. I was terrified – "

"You left me after I took one pill. You didn't even know if it was a full-blown relapse. It wasn't. Not until you left." His voice trailed off as he recalled sitting by his bathtub, staring at the pills he had tried so hard to stay off despite the pain that plagued him daily. "I was… I was terrified too. But you can't just want me back again, just like that. It's not a good enough reason. You just feel guilty, grateful – "

"I don't want you back because of that." She reached out to place her hands on his cheek, and gently turned his face towards hers. She insisted, "I want you back because I now really know how deeply you love, how incredible you truly are. You… you would give up your life for my daughter. How can I not love you?"

_Love_.

He refused to meet her gaze, choosing to look down at his useless legs.

"You told me I was the most incredible man you ever knew. But… it's not enough. I told you I loved you. But it's not enough to keep us going."

He needed to end it. He knew that he would never be good enough for her, not with him in a wheelchair. She deserved more than him. Rachel deserved more than him.

He placed his hands on the wheels, and finally looked at her in the eye.

"I told you that you make me a crappy doctor, but that I would always choose you. That was how much I was willing to give. – "

Cuddy flinched. She didn't think he actually remembered saying that. He had been drunk. She had dismissed it as some insincere words uttered while he was drunk, and that he wouldn't remember it. Now, looking back, it meant _so much_. House had always clung to the fact that he was a good doctor. He had even chosen to continue being in pain because he believed that he was a worse doctor in the absence of it.

And he had actually been willing to give that up for her. He chose her, over being a good doctor.

" - But you still left me, because you couldn't take me for who I was. I don't blame you. I made a grave mistake in taking the Vicodin to avoid pain and fear." He gestured to his legs. "But I'm still willing to choose you over everything, Cuddy. But what makes you think you can take me for who I am now? I can't even walk, Cuddy. I'm miserable. I can't even bring myself to go to work. I'll probably remain a misanthropic bastard for the rest of my life. – "

And then he voiced the question that he had thought about over and over again. It was the ultimate straw, the best reason why he thought they couldn't be together.

" – If we couldn't even make it to one year together when I was whole and happy, what makes you think we can work now?"

And he began wheeling away from her.

Cuddy stared at his retreating figure, too stunned to say anything.

She was the one who had encouraged him to open up to her, and to give her his fragile heart. But she had totally neglected the fact that he had his demons to fight too – he was a recovering drug addict, and she should have known that relapses were possible. Yet, she had given him such a hard time, when he had given so much to be with her. She had imposed her unrelenting standards on him, forgetting how unique Gregory House really was. He was not the typical man at all. And instead of helping him, she had thrown him back into the deep end when she knew he had taken the Vicodin. He had stayed clean for nearly two years. It was partly her fault that he had turned back to it.

"_I can't be the man you need." _

"_It's not enough to keep us going." _

"_I'm still willing to choose you over everything" _

Now he was running away again, because he didn't know if he could hold it all together. Listening to him, she knew that he wasn't angry at her. No, he still loved her. He did. He probably never stopped.

But he was pushing her away again. Because he was afraid of what might happen if they reconciled. Afraid of letting himself open up again. But most of all, because he felt inferior, and unworthy in a wheelchair.

She could let him leave, and everything could go back to normal, whatever that was. Friends, colleagues. It was the easy way out.

Or she could be the one fighting for their relationship and to keep him holding on.

She reached out, and grabbed his arm, preventing him from getting away. Her mind was firing at a million miles an hour, but she didn't know what to say.

"Physically stopping the paraplegic now, aren't we." There was no hint of sarcasm - it was just a mumble of a broken man. "Just let me go, Cuddy."

She stood up, and knelt down right in front of him. He stared into her eyes for a while before dropping his gaze to the ground. She was startled for a moment by the uncertainty that clouded his eyes. She wasn't used to him being vulnerable.

"I won't. Just let us start over again – "

"It's not that easy – "

"Why are you making things so difficult? I – "

House snapped.

"I can't walk, or stand _ever again_, Cuddy. You saw what happened! I can't protect you or Rachel at all. She fell, and I couldn't reach her because of a tiny curb. _A curb_. I should be able to step over it! – "

He yelled, all his fears and frustrations reaching boiling point. He pounded his fists on his useless legs. She _needed_ to see why it would never work.

" - She could have broken a bone, or gotten a concussion or something! You need someone you can depend on. Maybe I never was that person, and that's why you left. I tried, I really did try, but now I really just can't be that person. At all. Physically, it's just impossible. So just – "

He was silenced by the feel of Cuddy's lips pressing on his.

It felt _right_, having their lips pressed together. He tried to pull away so he wouldn't have to find out how much he really did miss it, and how much he _will _miss it when they can't be together.

But her hands came up to cup his jaw, and her thumbs wiped away the tears he didn't know had escaped from his eyes. He closed his eyes.

It wasn't a kiss fuelled by passion, but one fuelled by tenderness, filled with love and sorrow. A simple press of two lips together. But it encompassed all their misunderstandings, their flaws, and their winding journey to one another. It was an apology, and expression of hope, and a prayer for them to find their way back to each other, where they truly belonged.

She finally pulled away after an indeterminable amount of time. But before he could say anything, words rushed out of her mouth.

"I was wrong. I thought you couldn't handle pain, thought you couldn't be the one to stand up for me and Rachel, but you proved me wrong. The accident, all I've seen… I don't know how I missed it during the one year we were together, I let my expectations of a perfect family get ahead of me – "

"But you _deserve_ perfect, Cuddy. You do. Which is why – "

"I don't need perfect. I just need someone who makes me happy. And you are that person. I want you back. I _need_ you back."

House found himself yearning to say yes, to agree with her that they could start all over again. It had been what he all he ever wanted since they had broken up. He had felt _alive_ with her. He found comfort, and sanctuary in her. He didn't expect to come to love Rachel, but it turned out that she too had captured his heart of stone. Gregory House actually liked the man he was when he was with them. But now he didn't really know what to do, or who he was anymore.

"I don't even know… I don't know who I am anymore, Cuddy." He swallowed hard, and looked into her eyes. "How would you know?"

Anyone else would have found that statement puzzling, but not her. She understood perfectly. For so long, his pain had defined him. Now it had abruptly been taken away from him, and the legs he had fought so hard to keep had given up. House was quite simply, lost. Caught up in the whirlwind of what had happened, unable to find his bearings.

She reached over, and took his right hand again. This time, he didn't withdraw it. She raised his hand to her lips, and kissed his knuckles.

"We can find out together."

House felt a glimmer of hope and possibility, but he was still unconvinced.

"What if we don't – "

Her index finger immediately went to his lips, and she pressed against them, effectively shutting him up.

"Shut up, and just trust me, okay? You're scared, I know. But things will get better. And we can work through everything together. _I love you_. It might not be enough, but it damn well makes things a lot easier."

House smirked at seeing that fiery and confident side of her. It reminded him all over again of why he had fallen in love with her so many years back.

He found his heart winning over his head, telling him to go with it, to be with the woman he had loved for so many years. To not be afraid to screw up again, to trust that they could be happy together. That he could be happy again.

He leaned over towards her tentatively, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. He searched for comfort in her like he had done when she had come to him that day. She had found him and picked him up when he was at the very brink of it all. Like she was doing now. She was his anchor, his life buoy, preventing him from capsizing and drowning in the storm.

His hands crept around her, and hers around him. She planted a kiss on his temple, and embraced him. They reveled in the physical contact, at being together again. With their arms around each other, nothing felt wrong.

"Mummy?"

Rachel woke, and they broke apart from their embrace. Cuddy smiled at House. The corner of his lips quirked upwards, betraying his own feelings.

The little girl wriggled between the two of them, and opened her arms wide. "Do I get a hug too?"

Cuddy laughed, and did as she was told.

Rachel turned to House, who quickly said, "I'm not a teddy bear."

"But I love you, Hows."

"Yeah yeah… No, no, ew! Please don't kiss me." His command went unheeded as she did anyway. The mock disgust faded away, and he turned solemn, and lifted Rachel onto his lap. He looked into her eyes.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you just now."

Rachel's eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open a bit. She was genuinely bewildered at House's apology. Because, in her eyes, he had done nothing wrong.

She patted his cheek. "Why you sorry, Hows? I okay."

House opened his mouth to explain more, to apologise more. How could she think it was okay? But Cuddy gripped his hand, and caught his eye. _Don't blame yourself. It's okay. _

Looking at the small family unit they unwittingly formed in the middle of the park, House felt that perhaps, everything could be okay. There were so many more questions unanswered, so many more problems to tackle. There would be more ups and downs in his relationship with Cuddy. Arguments, blow-ups at home and at work. He still felt insecure. He hated the stutter that would reveal itself when he was agitated. He still hated how he couldn't walk.

But for now, they were okay.

Before he lost the fleeting moment of hope and courage, he spoke up.

"Cuddy?"

"Yeah?"

"I think… I would like to come back to work soon."

Cuddy broke into a radiant smile. "Okay. That's definitely more than okay."

"Do I still have to do clinic duty? I don't think I can see over the exam table…"

She shot him a mock-glare. "I have to think about it."

He smirked.

They were okay. Everything would be fine. Not easy, but better. And definitely okay.

* * *

><p>That night, House wheeled himself into the loft. He found himself in front of the baby grand, which he hadn't touched in months. It was spotless, though. Wilson made sure of it. The bench was gone, because he wouldn't need it again.<p>

He parked himself in front of the piano. He reached out, and lifted the lid with slightly trembling hands. The white and black keys greeted him like an old friend. He ghosted his fingertips over the keys, caressing them, enjoying the feel of the ivory keys below his fingertips.

He closed his eyes.

He exerted the gentlest of pressures, and the tinkle of the piano keys sang in his ears. His hands began moving in symphony, coaxing out from the piano a simple tune. It had been far too long.

He had been afraid of hearing the music, because he knew it was inevitable that it would sound different.

But as he listened to the music and lost himself in the moment as he always did, he found that it was okay. It was different, but not wrong. He could make up for it with the accents he inserted into his music. The music was still beautiful, and still a comfort he could rely on.

* * *

><p>Wilson stood in the doorway, listening to the music fill the loft again. House hadn't even heard him open the door. He smiled gladly as he looked at his best friend engrossed in front of the piano, hands dancing over the keys, playing the music he had missed so much. He was happy again.<p>

It started off a melancholy melody, but soon, it flowed into a tentative, but hopeful tune.


End file.
